We took off for an impromptu picnic at a place which would normally be twenty minutes away but ended up
being two hours, because of something or other on the highway. No worries there, we had two children at the back seat with an endless list of 'knock-knock' jokes ...(two hours was not long enough for that list to be exhausted I promise you) But we were rewarded for parental wisdom and endurance. The photos will attest to that I hope. Lunch from a vintage picnic basket is always rewarding too. The simplest things to pack are the best, don't you think? Cheese pies for the lovers of Greek food, fresh veggies and fruit,and iced tea because Lucy loves it. Swimming for the girls and a book for mom.
Ok. Confession time. I didn't finish the book. It is beautifully written. I take my hat off for the beauty of words strung together in exquisite sentences. But halfway through I found I was gasping for air in a stifling, nihilistic place. I struggled to extract myself from a sad spiral, like from a siren's call. Maybe I let books get under my skin too much. Whatever the case, I am determined to protect my little fort of small joys and meaningfulness.
But I will keep these lines from the book:
" She knew a thousand songs. Her bread was tender and her jelly was tart, and on rainy days she made cookies and applesauce. In the summer she kept roses in a vase on the piano, huge, pungent roses, and when the blooms ripened and the petals fell, she put them in a tall Chinese jar, with cloves and thyme and sticks of cinnamon. Her children slept on starched sheets under layers of quilts, and in the morning her curtains filled with light the way sails fill with wind."
And I am still looking for small blessings.