First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

First Grade Field Trip - Spring 2011

Field Trip - Yea!!! Great
The school year is winding down. My assignment today is to accompany grandson Eddie on his first grade field trip to a local “U-Pick-'em” farm for a family picnic lunch, and hayride to the strawberry patch. Of note is that the forecast is for full sun, temperature in the high nineties, very humid. 

  Early Arrival
I arrive, at the farm around 10:20, a bit early. Kids, in school buses, are due shortly after 10:30. I find a spot on the matted grass lot with a view of the complex, a gift shop at the entrance, a half dozen party tents each shading picnic tables, separate fenced-off petting zoo areas for sheep, donkeys, horses, peacocks, and goats etc. Plus the fields - acres and acres of vegetables, fruit trees, and pumpkins, all in various states of blossom. The works - if only I were in first grade.

A handful of mothers gather about the tents, talking mother-speak. There is a grandparent couple – my generation – dressed in long pants and matching white golf shirts. They stand attention-like and apart from the mothers, squinting with a worried gaze fixed on the entryway, anxiously anticipating the bus arrival, but looking as if expecting a tornado.

I amble over. We are well acquainted, regulars at school pick-up. We trade friendly one-liners and gracious laughs. “The buses are a little late,” we say, our brows furrowed.

Finally the yellow school bus shows up. Kids file out directed by teachers and helping-mothers. 

Set the Table
The adults set out the packed lunches as children race about on the grass. “Family picnic” is the designated starting activity. The eating begins. Kids finish in a jiffy and return to tag games. I sit with the grandparents. Hay wagons rumble by in my side view. Thirty minutes in and counting. Various groups scramble aboard and the wagons, pulled by tractors, chug away - dust in their wake - over a hill, out of site. 

Finally it is our turn. Kids and parents march to a waiting wagon, climb up, squeezing into space on hay bale seats. I back away, watching from a safe distance. A few parents wave, beckoning me to come along. I wave them off. The tractor starts, and the loaded wagon inches ahead, kicking up dust. Grandson Ed is on board.  I wait for the wagon to get along, then step out on the same road, hiking solo. I decide not to trail the wagon exactly and I notice some riders looking back at me, laughing. When the wagon turns to the right, goes over a small hill and then out of sight, I continue straight ahead and soon I am alone on an empty road, corn on my left, tomatoes to the right. The farm fields stretch out ahead - like what looks like forever. The farm is much larger than I thought.

I'm Forest Gump
I am feeling very Forest-Gump-like, no humans in view, just green vegetation and the dusty road. Is this legal? I wonder - walking without official escort. The horizon looms straight ahead. I plod along, feeling smaller with each step. Over the hill more fields appear. I finally spot the hay wagon again, far off in the distance and still moving away, matchbox car size. 

Where'd Everyone Go?

I consider that my route may not lead to the strawberry field after all and that possibly I will never meet up with the children. This troubles me. I try to keep the shrinking wagon in view, hoping it doesn’t vanish again. I am feeling decidedly trespasser-like. I breathe some relief as I suddenly notice that the tractor has stopped. OK, if that is so, I must make a right turn somewhere to reach them. I look for a road, or path, but see none. What to do? Turn back? Continue straight – south? To Kentucky - so it seems. 


As the Crow Flies
I decide instead to route myself as the crow flies - through the vegetables patches. This is risky, but I forge on, trying to stay between the rows to avoid trampling plants - a sin punishable by jail I'm certain. It is hard going, very uneven ground, plus now I am a definite felon. I have no choice but to continue. I only hope that I reach the wagon before the return trip begins. How humiliating would that be – passing the wagon - me, senior hiker dressed like a Florida retiree? 

I plod ahead, eyes on the dirt below. I look up. It is still some distance - like miles - to the wagon though the good news is that people are emptying out – or off. Head down again – one foot in front of the other. I look up. Closer now. I can see the kids fanning out into the berry field. More plodding on. At last I arrive. I see that each child holds a pint cardboard box for their berries. I locate Eddie and help with the picking. We fill his box. I look up. No one seems ready to leave. 


Do We Pay for This?
I grab another box; tell Ed to fill it up. Picking continues in full swing. I hear a mother inquire, “Do we pay for these?”

I was wondering that too. Are two boxes permitted?

Answer, “It’s all built in to the trip.”

“Cool”

The strawberries look delicious. I eat more than a few. “Has to be legal,” I think.

Finally the hay wagon director – a college girl, farm employee – barks at us to finish our picking. Every adult quits immediately and starts walking toward the wagon. Enough already. 

Kids ignore her words; stay bent over the berry patch. Another shout to wrap it up. This time helping-moms echo the call and eventually the wagon loading begins. I am one of the first on. I pick out an empty hay bale.

Hay Rides - and My World Record Kiss

The ride back begins. 

May I say something? Hay rides are immensely over rated. 

For one thing there is never enough hay. Today there is no loose hay, only hay bales as seats. Better than nothing. But then I’m expecting nothing. This is not 1952. Nor is it a nocturnal hayride along the country roads of Orange County, NY. Further, I am not twelve and am not sitting next to Nancy Langlitz when, halfway into the trip I raised my arm and draped it over her shoulder. It was just as we passed Brady’s farm. I had vowed to friends that I would kiss Nancy on this ride and heard from same friends that she was OK with it. So we kissed, which was wonderful, but then it seems  - somehow something happened.

So we kissed
I don’t know who decided this; obviously it was either Nancy or myself. The thing was, neither of us knew much about kissing that was not related to a spin-the-bottle game. So, again, someone, Nancy or yours truly, decided that our kiss should never end. So we kissed, lips pressed together all the way down Brady Mountain (4 miles) into the village of Warwick, through town right up to the Village Hall entrance where the ride began and now would end  and where Nancy Langlitz and I ended our world record kiss.

“Was this how big people kiss,” I thought.

OK, where was I? Oh - hay rides – correct? Yes, 2011.

We, parents and field-trippers, made our way slowly back to the original picnic area amid considerable dust and zero shade. Had to be over100 degrees.On the trip home, I crank up the air conditioning. A mother hitches a ride with me. She had come out on the bus, without air conditioning. She tells me I saved her life.

In all – one fine day.