Every nice Sunday during the summer, my family went picnicking at Allegany State Park. The park was only a half-hour drive from Bradford and was nestled in the midst of a pristine forest. Red House Lake was our destination. It had two picnic areas and a great beach.
The adults took an ice chest full of food, pop, and beer. They went to party, eat, and unwind. Sometimes, they were the ones who got out of control. We kids swam, fished, and collected bottle caps. Playing catch, pitching horseshoes, and throwing a Frisbee were other neat activities.
At nightfall, black bears invaded the park to raid the overflowing garbage cans. I was three years old the first time I saw a bear lumber in from the woods. Emitting a squawk, I climbed my dad like a tree. He calmly finished his Genesee ale and then whispered, “You can stop shaking now, Billy. That fella’s got plenty to eat without chompin’ on a scrawny boy like you.”
Some Sundays, our Bolivar Run neighbors went along to State Park. That was especially fun because Norma Gould and I got to spend the day together. Our main problem was ditching her younger twin sisters, Marsha and Barbara, whom Norma had to babysit. Usually, we took them to the beach, lost them among the bathers, and swam off by ourselves for as long as we dared. Hanging on the rope that enclosed the swimming area, we splashed, giggled, hugged, and held hands. If the lifeguard yelled as us, we dove underwater to kiss and make fish faces at each other.
One time my dad got to the park late, and we were stuck next to some rowdies who guzzled beer and cussed at the top of their lungs. We just unloaded the car and started our charcoal grill when the drunks began hurling a football back and forth. Twice, an overthrown ball zipped into our picnic space. The first knocked over our ice chest. The second put a bruise on Grandma B’s leg. After a third pass missed our bowl of potato salad by inches, Mom grabbed the ball, tossed it on the grill, and barbequed it. She ranted about how the park should crack down on ignorant idiots until we feared they’d set fire to us. They sure were drunk and mad enough!
Our family could be wild, too. During one reunion, Wade’s mom and our cousin, Betsy Gordon, got into the firewater—hard. After five or six drinks, they wandered off to the gift shop at the administration building and came back with a rubber snake they named “Wayne.” The more they drank, the more sentimental they got over their new “pet.” Somehow, they dropped him in the tall grass, and he got lost. Collapsing to their knees, they crawled around crying, “Wayne, oh, Wayne! Where are you, Wayne?”
Aunt Jane Gordon had seen enough of State Park for that day. She was a legal secretary and very prim and proper. She herded her inebriated husband, Dick, into the passenger’s seat of their car. After shoving Wade and me into the backseat, she snapped, “We’re going home!”
With indignant rage over her daughter’s behavior, Jane leaped behind the wheel and burned rubber out of the parking lot. She muttered to herself as she rounded the lake before bombing over the hill to Salamanca.
Uncle Dick was a sign painter and the family joker. When he “had a few,” his mouth flew like a duck’s flapper. Over Jane’s objections, he performed his racy circus barker routine. Next, he rattled off his favorite fairy tale, “Moldy Socks and the Three Beers” until Wade and I exploded with laughter. After rambling on about his college adventures in I Felta Thigh fraternity, he finally passed out.
Now, Jane was so mad at Dick that she raced down the road. When she reached the speed trap in Limestone, New York, a siren sounded, and she saw a flashing red light in the rearview mirror. She couldn’t help but blurt, “Oh, shit!” At the sound of her voice, Dick regained consciousness just as the state trooper pulled us over.
Jane tried her darnedest to talk the officer out of fining her. She said she was speeding to get her sick husband to the hospital. He might have believed her had Dick not slurred, “I know how a trooper keeps his hat from blowing off.”
“And how’s that?” growled the policeman, catching a whiff of Dick’s breath.
“’Cause it fits real tight on his pointy head!”
Needless to say, we ended up at the justice of the peace’s office that was conveniently open on Sunday. I don’t recall Dick and Jane going with us to State Park after that. But Moldy Socks and the Three Beers showed up often at our campfire.