Making L. in our way

raywong

Warning :
Adult Only!

WHEN OUR CHILDREN were little, my husband and I would hire a babysitter
and go on a backpacking date, bringing a picnic of bread, Brie, pears,
olives, a bottle of wine, and a big cotton blanket.

One spring day we hiked a familiar trail through bay laurels
and towering redwoods to a rolling meadow containing a single tree:
a California oak. It was majestic and far from the main path.
Its lower branches hung close to the ground, creating a round skirt of shade,
perfect for a picnic. The spot was special to us
because we’d been there many times and had never encountered anyone else.

We swept away acorns and spread out the blanket, arranging the food on one side
and ourselves on the other. The tree limbs gently creaked.
My husband took my hand and pulled me close for a kiss. The wheatgrass waved in the meadow.

There were no children tugging at our sleeves, asking questions, whining, giggling —
just rustling leaves, buzzing insects, and chirping birds.
I was about to open the wine when my husband took off my shirt
and theatrically tossed it away so that it caught on a branch.
I laughed as he removed his clothes and piled them into a pillow for our heads.
I wiggled out of my jeans and straddled him.

Just as he squeezed my breast, I heard voices.

At first I thought it was music drifting from some faraway radio.
Then I saw the elderly man addressing a group of people just outside the circle of shade:
“This is a classic specimen of Quercus agrifolia Née, also known as the California coast oak.”
The group, most of them old, wore sensible sun-protecting hats and carried walking sticks.
Their guide announced, “You can’t celebrate Arbor Day in California without visiting a coast oak!”

Arbor Day? Who celebrated Arbor Day?

“Notice,” he went on, “the wide spread of the bottom branches.”

Hearing this, I fell flat on top of my husband and started to laugh. “Hush,” he said.
We tried to stay still and silent, hoping they wouldn’t see us,
though it seemed impossible for them not to.

My husband had the good idea to grab the edge of the blanket and pull it over me.
The Brie slipped between my knees.

“The coast oak is known for its supremely hard wood,” said the guide,
and my husband and I laughed out loud. I think I heard a few snickers from the crowd.

As their guide took them deeper into the woods,
we went back to celebrating Arbor Day in our own way.