Humanity is Longing For a Picnic

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This summer a couple of friends and I ate at a small hobby farm turned
part-time restaurant located in the way-out boonies. They make pizza
and bread in a brick oven and that's all'pizza and bread. They are
wildly popular. Their hours of operation are Tuesday evenings only and
it's BYO everything: beverages, tables, chairs, plates, utensils. They
don't advertise and there's no sign pointing the way. It's all word of
mouth and you pretty much have to know where you're going to find the
place.
We had never been there before and when we arrived found ourselves
grossly underdressed. There were at least two hundred people in
attendance (a slow night, they said) who looked like they were dressed
for a garden wedding'we wore cutoffs and t-shirts. People sat at
tables with their crystal wine decanters, fine china, fresh floral
centerpieces, and tablecloths; again, all items the people themselves
hauled in'we brought beer in cans.
The people came from all walks of life: doctors, lawyers, CEOs, the
retired, and the kids. They set up on a roughly mowed lawn'a clearing,
really'with overgrown evergreens and rundown buildings for a backdrop.
There were no facilities of any kind, no garbage cans, no televisions,
no video games, and absolutely no wait staff. There were no signs
telling you where to park, where to sit, what to do, or who would get
their pizza next.
On the plus side, there were no loud peals of drunken laughter, no
brawling, or arguing, or misconduct of any kind. People were not
stressed out; the mood was peaceful, calm, joyful.
It was a celebration like no other I had ever been to. It reminded me
of one of those Victorian picnics you read about in the classics'a
pink-lemonade-and-white-sugar-cookie-type of event. After the meal
everyone hung out and played dice games, or moved leisurely from table
to table and just visited. I thought I had walked into an alternate
universe.
As dusk approached, without any prompt from anyone, people said their
goodbyes and left. Not in mass exodus, but quietly, almost without
notice. One by one, people simply packed up their stuff. They took
with them all that they had brought without complaint, and drove away.
We were the last ones to leave. It was the time of the evening when
it's no longer dusk, but not full darkness either--that illusive magic
moment when even the shadows disappear. I looked around me at the
clearing. There was nothing left now but the memory of the evening,
and the certainty that the following Tuesday would pack 'em in just
the same.
The success of the pizza farm is undeniable, but what makes it so
popular? The pizza is good, but I've had good pizza elsewhere. I can
think of only one explanation: Whether people realize it or not, they
are longing for a gentler experience and a truer sense of communion
with one another. A simple meal shared in the great outdoors does seem
to nourish our innate hunger.
Copyright Mary M. Bauer. You are free to use this article in part or
full provided you include the bio.