With fresh egg salad and lightly-dressed chopped Roma tomatoes in the cooler on ice blocks, Patrick and I pointed the car west and made our way to a lovely public park about an hour from us, stopping at the bank to negotiate a check deposit. It was hot (still…) and the sun wasn’t even trying to hide behind any of the white-topped gray-bottomed clouds that did absolutely nothing in the sky but hang there. We packed our two folding camp chairs, more travel mugs than the car had cupholders for and a couple containers of keto chocolate brownies. A banana went along for the ride, balancing the guilt of the sundaes we’d have later on the way home. Together 29 years and counting, Patrick and I are still dating. How sweet, and encouraging as we look down the road with a view to our twilight years.

It was an off-market day and with batches of granola crisping in the fridge, we gave ourselves permission to not work and just be (a unicorn in our lives if ever there was one), to see what the not-farm world was doing. The park, with its paved walkways, charming footbridges, boardwalks and finely manicured grassy meadows was light on traffic when we arrived. We’d parked in the shade of a perfectly-shaped maple tree and began gathering what we thought we’d need in our pockets as we hiked when we happened to notice a few people standing near the open trunk of their car, helping one of their group attach a long fake fur tail to the black belt around her hips. Her head was wrapped in an open-faced hood sporting what looked like fox ears; she stood steadily on her thigh-high black stiletto boots.

Before we could exchange our silent reactions, two more cars pulled up and discharged their occupants, also costumed, wigged and stilettoed, carrying all manner of “weapons”—swords, bows, shields and flying stars dangling from elaborately decorated belts. Pointy-eared headbands were the norm and one young woman caught my eye with her Hello Kitty backpack. In our khaki cargo shorts and t-shirts, sensible hiking shoes and prescription sunglasses, we were unarmed, not dangerous and clearly underdressed for the occasion that was unfolding before us. “Did we miss a memo somewhere?” An elderly volunteer wearing a shirt with the word “Ranger” across the chest and driving a canopied golf cart pulled along slowly between the rows of parked cars. We flagged him down and our faces asked the question before we could. “They’re here to take photos” was all he’d give us and we were left to our own happy imaginations. Cars and costumed riders kept arriving, putting the finishing touches on their outfits before locking their vehicles and heading over to a sign-in table. We moved among them (masked and safely distanced), still keeping to our own simple agenda and growing more enchanted by the minute.

Ok, so we’re not in our twenties anymore but we do stay fairly current with social norms and trends. Cosplay isn’t outside our realm of understanding. Conversely, we don’t have a separate closet for satiny capes with meticulously stitched-on sequins, tottering platform boots and a dresser full of styrofoam heads to store our many different wigs. In a delightfully unexpected turn of events, our simple picnic in a nearby park became a people-watching event to end all. We hiked a few of the trails and then returned to the car to fetch our lunch, setting up our camp chairs under a stand of cottonwoods across from the parking lot, with a perfect view of the day’s arrivals and departures.

Of course we mused about what goes into such an extracurricular commitment, a hobby with pieces and parts that can’t possibly be comfortable on such a humid late August day. Yet here they were, laughing, posing for cameras (not just iPhones; we’re talking tripods and fancy National Geographic photographer-type equipment; each car seemed to contain someone who filled this job specifically), staying smartly hydrated through it all. The mood was fun, noncompetitive, colorful and we hadn’t paid a dime to be this entertained. Our own hobbies pale in comparison: keeping a modest flock of layers, wood-turning and bookbinding, art quilting and granola-making. None of these needs an audience (customers for the granola, sure, but we tend to give everything else we make away) and I’m not sure we’d be comfortable with folks watching us anyway. Even when we were younger, we were content to quietly go about our creative pursuits and would only elaborate on them if someone asked. The pandemic didn’t invent introverts, I can assure you.

As we finished eating, Patrick mused that we’d planned and packed and traveled 45 miles to do what we could easily have done just a couple of acres from our own front porch. Why? We didn’t know in advance that the destination community park was hosting such eye candy; we just wanted a day spent in each other’s pleasant company, leaving unfinished projects and obligations at home for a while (as guilt-free as is possible for us) and enjoy a slice of life in its own time. Mission accomplished, I’d say, with a huge cherry on top. We meandered our way back home, no hurry to get to those left-behind responsibilities, driving through a few old suburban neighborhoods and making a quick run to the art supplies store for beads and open-stock sheets of crafting paper. We never stopped smiling as we tucked the day’s images safely into our memories, to be pulled out on some nondescript winter day when there’s a break in the conversation.

Our landed home still holds fast to our hearts and we intend for that to continue in perpetuity. It’s also good to step off that familiar common ground to see what other folks do with their lives. Before dinner, we unpacked it all in her presence and it quietly became part of the story we keep living here. She’ll take good care of it long after we’ve forgotten the details.