Every June when I was a young girl, the First Baptist Church our family attended in Howard, Kan., held their annual picnic at the city park. Many of our church friends were farm families, and gatherings where we were able to visit and sit a spell were rare.
Right after the church service, friends started gathering at the park, close to the aged shelter house. The men would set up folddown tables in the shade of some big walnut trees. The women covered the tables with brightly colored gingham tablecloths. It was the children’s job to help carry our mothers’ covered dishes, carefully wrapped in foil, to the buffet tables.
I remember my mom instructing me as she placed the chilled
