On the picnic table

My father had absolutely gone crazy. Of this I was certain. Without warning, he snatched my cup of lemonade and tossed the contents onto the thick summer grass. I did what any four year-old would do when faced with such a chaotic situation: I cried.
Ignoring my lamentations, Dad proceeded to my older brother Lionel, seizing his plastic drinking vessel and disposing of the seemingly innocuous liquid in the same fashion. Lionel was at first indignant, but then chose to express his emotions exactly as I had.
Moving like a desert whirlwind, he raced towards my mother, who, witnessing his sudden spurt of mania, froze with her libation halfway to her lips. The lemonade never stood a chance.
My sister Lauren, who was six months old and sucking on her bottle of baby formula, was alone spared this indignity.
Continuing his frenzy, Dad grabbed the edge of the picnic table, and without regard for the sumptuous smorgasbord that Mom had spent two hours that morning preparing, upended the entire thing, spilling deviled eggs, Waldorf salad, broccoli florets with blue cheese dressing, tiny squares of sharp cheddar, and tuna sandwiches skewered with fancy, green-laced toothpicks. And of course, the gallon jug full of the offending beverage. In the wake of Dad’s fury, a few stray napkins fluttered towards the ground.
Dad took a deep breath, then exhaled loudly, signaling relief. My brother and I stopped crying. Mom tried unsuccessfully to speak. We all waited for some kind of explanation. Except for my baby sister, who slurped contentedly.
Our peculiar patriarch looked at his bewildered family before supplying a brief answer.
“Ants,” he remarked calmly.