The Norcore Picnics: Last is a Relative Term

It took a fistfight,  bubblin' crude and a dry spell to turn me from a party-hearty-dame into a party-pooper-matron. I also learned that "last" doesn't mean the same thing to everyone.

In 1979 my husband Gary, and his brother Dick, bought a business which included fifteen employees. They were as proud as bullfrogs and eager to make their mark, not only on the industry, but in employee relations.

That summer we planned a company picnic at our beach home. We cleaned, cooked, ordered a keg and welcomed the employees with gusto.

It was a success. People began arriving mid-morning and stayed past midnight. For several years we alternated between Dick’s home and ours, the party growing from twenty to thirty. In 1983 we moved to a different home and became permanent hosts.

That year I had my first reservations about the picnic. The homes in the new neighborhood were closer together and I feared a late, outdoor party might annoy precious neighbors. After dusk the party moved inside. After midnight I made my debut as the Company Crone. Dressed in my bathrobe, I slammed off the stereo and pointed to the door.

The following year we hired a caterer, shortened the hours, and asked employees to only bring family members. Grandkids and dates we didn’t mind. But I found complete strangers wandering through my home enjoying free beer and food. This included a young woman who seemed to find my husband's conversation fascinating. While I bandaged barnacle-scraped knees she composed her countenance in an attitude of rapt attention. Or so it appeared to me.

The company grew. Attendance passed sixty. One party ended with a fistfight. I suspected guests of visiting their cars for a few tokes and God-knows-what-else. I had had it. I suggested we forego anymore company picnics. Gary said, "one more.”

That year there were about eighty guests—including the mysterious lady who found Gary so charming—and a boa constrictor...but, hey, it was the last hurrah. Right?

Wrong. Gary wanted one more last picnic.

After several months of, "We’re not having a picnic—yes we are—no, we're not—yes, we are,” I almost said, "Fine, have your lawyer call my lawyer." Instead, I said, "Only if you do all the work."

My reward came when I heard Gary muttering to himself that he was too tired to enjoy the picnic. Oh, the poor guy.

The following year I relented and assisted with the preparation, but without enthusiasm. Late in the afternoon when I collapsed into a lawn chair, I thought I saw the dirt move and bubble at my feet. Daintily, I sniffed. With a noticeable lack of poise I screeched, "Gary, there's sewage bubbling out of the ground!"

Now I know how to get guests to depart at a reasonable hour.

One would think that a failed septic pump would convince Gary the picnic had reached its zenith. One would be wrong. There were several more "last" picnics. But, the employees appointed a committee to plan and produce it. In theory, all I had to do was shower, dress and put on a happy face.

Attendance now topped one hundred. The committee hired a clown and added a chili cook-off. There were still faces I didn't recognize—and one rapt one I did. Kids in wet swimsuits swarmed the bathrooms. I never drank during the parties. I’d pour a glass of wine but not see it again—or the subsequent ones—until we collected them after dark along with plates, half-full go-cups and Coke cans. We left the cigarette butts for daylight.

In 1997 the meteorologist predicted temperatures in the high 90's. As I showered I noticed the water pressure drop. Blaming the dishwasher, I nevertheless lathered up expecting the pressure to re-establish itself. It didn't.

One benefit of country living is having your own well. There was no way to repair the leaking tank before the party. "Too bad we'll have to cancel the picnic," I consoled Gary.

Who was I kidding?

I won't go into detail, but the day was a trial. I used bottled water in the kitchen. We flushed toilets with buckets of seawater. I offered to drive people to the state park. But mostly they ignored me and peed in the shrubbery. I guess. When the party was in full swing, an employee arrived with his extended family of twenty squished into three cars.

Attendance that year topped out at one hundred twenty. But, that is of little consequence. It was, finally, the last Norcore Picnic.