yes, yes, I'm punching my ticket this time. Sorry to be such a sporadic commuter but sometimes I get excited about a theme and start making this grandiose poem and it goes way beyond Monday and most of those are in fact still cooking.
Um, the photo I landed on for my prompt absolutely does not want to copy itself here. But imagine this:
An old b&w from the U of Washington's archives, showing a party of picnicers in early 20th century dress getting out of a boat they have rowed to a flat beach somewhere. The lake is calm. The distant horizon is flat and wooded. They have brought a straight-backed chair.
Used to be
of a Sunday afternoon we'd
all go boating on the lake
pack up the wicker baskets
with cold roasted chicken and deviled eggs and dainty finger pastries.
The hardy aunts would insist on rowing
aunts with proper hats on
decorated with ribbons and silk flowers
I tipped one of them hats in the lake once
got tanned for it!
Used to be they all laughed and talked and had a merry time
out there on the water
on Tucker island where we laid out a feast on blankets
the music of their voices filled the day
their stories and their debates
We kids were admonished to be silent and we jolly well were
until we hit that beach and could so screaming off to the interior
to fight our indian wars
and gather toads
Used to be you could just go out of a Sunday afternoon
be among folks, simply
Now it's always the tv, here in the Home
the grandkids hardly ever come, their hair dyed strange, driving some big car almost a tractor
don't say more than two words
never caught a toad in their life.
P Nolan is our driver this week - catch a ride here!
above . . . and below
8 hours ago