San Antonio Express-News (Sunday)
No Easter camping? No problem
For some San Antonians, not being able to camp out at the park for a prime Easter picnic spot is a major bummer.
Parks will be open, the mayor announced Monday, but camping is not allowed.
But a handful of San Antonians are looking in the direction of
City Hall, mouthing a silent “thank you” — and that solemn gratitude has nothing to do with keeping down COVID-19 numbers. That gratitude is all about permission to break traditions, the relief of being let off the hook.
I grew up as part of a San Antonio Sunday picnic family, which is really the sum of several families brought together by a love of carne asada and nice weather. Our family was invited by my dad’s Navy buddies, my dad invited a few families from our CYO sports teams, those families invited their next-door neighbors and cousins from across town, and soon we were spending Sundays with a dozen families.
Many hands made excellent Sunday cookouts; someone brought chicken, others brought burgers. Sometimes there were fajitas and ribs, and everybody brought sides. But that also required many lawn chairs, grills, bags of Reddy ice and 50-pound
Oscar coolers loaded onto trucks, unloaded at the park, then carried back into the garage at the end of the day. There were lots of kids to send back and forth with can openers and blankets, which was good because that’s also the numbers you need to play a real game of softball, safely take over a neighborhood pool, celebrate summertime birthdays when school’s out and launch a competitive cascaron war.
One year, one of the moms volunteered her son Frankie to spend the night at the park and make sure we got the highly coveted, first-come, first-served park pavilion. It was a bold move, considering Frankie, who was around 19 and had a steady job, wasn’t one of the weekend regulars. He was also unaware he’d been volunteered to stake an overnight claim. But he wasn’t alone; every Easter in San Antonio,
dozens of others are volunteered, guilted, manipulated, bribed or assigned overnight park duty by their parents — for the good of the group.
My mother wrangled with guilt and worked to make sure her potluck offerings were deserving. She baked a massive cake and assembled a fruit salad in a basket carved from a watermelon. What if it rains, she wondered as she guilted me into peeling potatoes for the potato salad. What if he’s approached by an aggressive dog, she asked as she boiled six dozen eggs to devil. What if he gets jumped, she said, shuddering at the thought of park toughs beating the ham salad out of Frankie.
But on Sunday morning, as we were saying an extra prayer of gratitude at Easter Mass for Frankie and the gifts we were about to receive, Frankie’s mom slid into the pew in front of us. My mom cautiously asked, with concern, about Frankie.
“He didn’t go. He’s still in bed,” his mom said. “But he chained some lawn chairs to the spot by the big trees.”
Sure enough, we arrived at the park to find that we had a spot, thanks to Frankie’s chairs. People respected the unwritten code of Easter at the park. The prized pavilion, however, went to a big group that included one early bird who’d staked it out since Thursday.
In the end, every kid in our group had their fill of fajitas, Cadbury eggs and Doritos, and carried chairs, dirty grills and leaky coolers back and forth before heading home to wash confetti out of their hair.
It might seem very extra to some, but traditions — especially those that take a village — endure because they are the foundation of who we are, set in stone by parents. That’s why people camp for a good spot, even when they’d rather just stay home and watch “The Ten Commandments.”
So, on behalf of all the Frankies out there: Thanks, Mayor Ron.