There Must Be A Picnic

It’s Sunday. Picnics always happen on Sundays. After church, or not, everyone piles into the car and makes their way to Grandma’s house. Sunday afternoons spent with Sisters, Cousins, Dad, sometimes Mom, Aunts, Uncles, Great-Aunts, Great-Uncles, Dad’s Cousins who are my Cousins too, Grandma, Grandpa, Great-Grandma, Great-Grandpa, and for a few short picnics in my life, Great-Great-Grandpa. Friends of the family were our family too. Which sometimes made sorting things out confusing. Am I related to you? Potato Salad. Macaroni Salad. Jello Molds. Burgers. Corn on the Cob. What’s growing in the garden? Anyone want to shoot cans off of the fence across the road? I’ll get the gun. Let’s play tag or maybe hide and seek. Tab and Fresca. What can the Weight-Watcher’s eat? Running through the poison ivy. Whoops! Stealing cookies from the cookie jar. Card games and penny socks. Catching tadpoles and lightening bugs and toasting marshmallows or eating ice cream while watching the Magical World of Disney. Let’s go to bed.

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