What would it be, I
wonder?
Charry grilled fish
and peppers on a deserted Greek shore, beside the remains of the weathered Argonaut?
Apple blossom and
bone china in an English garden, with shelves of Keats, Jane Austen, and a few dozen
Agatha Christie paperbacks tempting a visit through the open cottage door?
Those margaritas carried
in a backpack up a gentle oak-canopied hillside after work?
Black Forest ham
and Gouda with a red rind on a sailboat carried by the wind across the bay to
Angel Island from the Berkeley Yacht Club a lifetime ago?
Wooly sheep and
Daimlers in the countryside at Glyndebourne followed by the bubbly delights of
Mozart and champagne?
The Rodin Sculpture
Garden, candles, Black Lab, children, friends?
The year I threw myself a birthday picnic there.
The bread and
olives carried up to the stone tiers of the stadium at Delphi past the Temple
of Apollo for breakfast before the tourists and the sun?
Any and all of
these. The company is all that ever really
matters, and the blessing of the Muse of Picnics in her straw brimmed hat.
image: babette1.tumblr.com
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oh!
ReplyDeletei could SEE each and all of them.
.... and my own ...
sitting in a sunsuit on top of the cool concrete table under shady catalpa trees... eating icy cold watermelon ...
and trying to spit the seeds farther than my brother could!
yes.
picnics are wonderful things.
I love that picture. I remember watermelon too, and its seeds—sitting one summer on the back steps of the Santa Fe Episcopall church, fondly nicknamed "Saint Bede's in the Weeds" (surely as a play on Saint Martin's in the Fields). The quintessential summer memory.
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