It was a day that we waited for, fantasized about, salivated over; school picnic day in the Pittsburgh Public School System.

We were good kids. We stood in lines without talking, sat quietly at our desks filling in countless (it seemed) worksheets, recited our "times tables," were respectful towards our teachers. We cooperated, shared, kept silent, learned the rules of grammar, didn't speak unless we raised our hands and were "called on." We read about how Jane jumped and how Dick ran. It was time for a big break.

On school picnic day our beloved amusement park, Kennywood, opened its doors to us in the Pittsburgh Public School System only. Kennywood was paradise and paradise was Kennywood. It smelled of motor oil and hot cornbread and burned sugar. Kids ran, screamed while riding the Jack Rabbit, the bells buzzed when someone "got a hit" at Pokerino, the motor cars crashed into each other. It was a perfect time to be ten years old. The younger kids stayed in Kiddyland, watched over by their mothers. Boring. The older kids rode the scariest rides but it was always girls with their boyfriends. The girls fussed with their hair after going on the rides and squealed a lot. Ridiculous. We would never be that way.

The grandmothers sat under the dusty trees on benches with their arms crossed over their jutting abdomens. When I streaked by I waved at my grandmother and she always waved back. Never ever would I be that old. The grandmothers ate in the restaurant areas where they sat on chairs, at tables. At Kennywood?! When you could eat corndogs on big sticks and fresh cut french fries out of paper bags?! Unbelieveable.

By the end of school picnic day my mother was grey and weary. She had been standing in lines in Kiddyland for hours. At dinner time, my father came to Kennywood to join us; he still wore his business suit and looked out of place, but I loved him for being so tall and serious right in the middle of Kennywood. He gingerly sat down at a picnic table with some other parents and ate a sandwich made from the "cold cuts" my mother brought. A sandwich was never "dinner" but this was school picnic day.

Light drained from the sky and we knew it useless to beg for "one more ride." It was over; well, almost over. We, my two friends Arlene and Naomi, squeezed into one of our parents' cars and off we went back to Shady Avenue Ext., but there was one last small thrill left to consume; the ride over the Homestead-HiLevel Bridge that crossed the Monogahela River. We loved this bridge because the cars made a clanking, bumping sound as they crossed. And of course we held our breath while traveling over the river. We were dirty, we had grease on our faces, and we knew we'd get a dose of Kaopectate if we complained of indigestion so the three of us suffered together in silence. We thanked God we were ten years old at the close of school picnic day.