And learning the meaning of life at a picnic.

        My grandma scrubbed floors for a living. So, she was no ray of sunshine when it came to her view of life.

        To her, the glass wasn't just half empty. It was bound to be knocked over and land on the floor.

        From her perspective, usually on her hands and knees with a scrub brush and bucket nearby, life was a mess waiting for her to clean up.

        That goes a long way toward explaining why she always announced at this time of year:

        “July Fourth has come and gone. Summer's half over.”

        Those words of doom could send a chill through the hottest summer afternoon. The world suddenly felt as if the Grim Reaper had just stepped in front of the sun.

        Breaking out in an ice-cold sweat, I would panic. If summer was half over, I irrationally reasoned, soon it would be all over. Then it would be all over for kids.

        Way too soon it would be time to go back to school. Nine months of hard labor, with no chance for parole, no time off for good behavior. An eternity spent solving word problems (“If a train leaves the station at . . . ”), dissecting bugs or, even worse, diagramming a sentence.

        Panic convinced me summer would never see another smoggy sunrise. Freedom was fleeting, like lightning bugs floating from the lawn during a steamy night in July.

        Breaking the spell, my mom would utter the magic words:

        “We're going on a picnic.”

        So long panic. Hello summer.

Memories al fresco

        The panic-chasing picnic often visited Mount Airy Forest and McFarland Woods. Occasionally, it took take place at a rest stop, by a lake or in our own backyard on a picnic table built by my dad from a forest of redwood.

        Looking back on those family picnics, every memory tastes sweet.

        The drinks, Cokes in little bottles — never cans — were kept cold in a metal cooler, barrel-shaped with a Scotch-plaid design. Under the lid, ham sandwiches wrapped in wax paper sat on a plastic tray suspended above the bottles bobbing in a sea of ice water and cubes.

        Sitting with my sister in the back seat of the family Olds, I would hear the ice in the cooler whenever the car hit a bump in the road. The cubes tapped the bottles, mini icebergs brushing against the hulls of a fleet of Cokes. The sound left me parched and caused my growling stomach to wonder:

        Are we there yet?

        Finally at our destination, the picnic began with the ritual unfurling of the tablecloth Baseball gloves and purses held down the four corners

        When it was time to eat, my mom ceremoniously lifted the cooler's lid and divvied up the sandwiches. Under the careful folds of the waxpaper, the ham's jucies mingled with the bread, lettuce and mayo. Carrot sticks, kept in a plastic bag of ice water, were passed around. Bing cherries stayed behind in the cooler. They were dessert.

Picnic philosophy

        Funny how you remember things by what you ate, not what was said. I can't begin to reconstruct any conversations. I won't pretend to say we discussed the meaning of life. My dad never donned a toga and quoted dead Greeks.

        We just ate. Talked. And laughed.

        That was enough to come away with a lasting impression: Enjoy the here and now.

        No one at these picnics acted as if they had a care in the world.

        No one let on that school was just around the corner.

        Or that the season stood at the halfway mark.

        Summer wasn't half over. It had only just begun.

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