Italian Song

Sunday we will attend the Madonna del Grappa picnic at Lower Manning Park. It is the picnic of my fore bearers, all revolving around good food, good friends and how we ended up in Santa Barbara.

The pinochle games played by older men, the accordion player who serenades the group, the wine that is shared. As children we would pay our dimes and get into the "cake walk", trying to guess the number that would be called when the bell stopped ringing, hoping we would win, but just not the dessert our family brought.

I have fond memories of the picnic baskets of my parents and grandparents, traditionally only brought out for the various Italian picnics over the summer; heavy wicker and wood hampers filled with durable plastic plates and silverware, tumblers for cold drinks and wine and enough tablecloths to cover several benches, reserving our spot amidst the other tablecloths, butcher paper and signs.

The deep-pit barbecues will turn out chicken, ribs and sausage to be served with the traditional polenta, salad and bread. There will be too much food to eat, but the point of the picnic was never the food, much to the chagrin of those who insist in lining up early and being first to receive their food. The point was, and is, to relive those memories of picnics past and set the stage for future picnics, insuring opportunities to celebrate our heritage and relive memories.