Ramshackle

Ramshackle

We made this room together in my soul
Before the storm came, and the roof caved in.
The rattle of wind at windows echoes and fades.
Once-brilliant hues pale to grey
On peeling paint and spotty pillows.
Empty chair, with its last leg,
Leans over to shut the door.

Frog (a salute to a native son)

 

Frog

The frog comes
on little flat feet.

It squats croaking
over marshland and backwash
on slimy haunches
and then swims on.

Fog

By Carl Sandburg

The fog comes

on little cat feet.

It sits looking

over harbor and city

on silent haunches

and then moves on.

I Love a 1940s Parade Lineup

 

More pix discovered among the postcards I bought, lo, these long years ago, at auction. They were tucked away in an album, treated as though they were a souvenir folder or booklet, when, in fact, they were a souvenir booklet of a more private sort… much as I like them, I am still paring down the contents of my visual library, so, now that they are digitally recorded, the originals will go to a good home, soon.

I am unsure of the location of the parade – perhaps someone can tell from the buildings in the background of some of the photos? – but, by the sign on the side of the car, the passenger is, supposedly, Miss Eastern Iowa 1947, so that might be a bit of a clue. Or not. 

Guys, is that an Olds Futuramic convertible she's sitting in? 
It's even more intriguing than the outfit of flowers she's dressed in.

We can narrow the date down to 1947 or even late '48 by this (she may be the outgoing diva, after all – although, by the fresh floral crown, I'd guess the opposite). The hood & ornament of the beauty of an Oldsmobile she's sitting in makes me think it's a '48, but, again, I may be in error. (Want to bet it was a lovely shade of crimson?).  Between the car and the history of beauty pageants, someone ought to be able to figure out more, but that someone will not be me, today.

Still, let's get our ducks in a row, and tell 'em to strike up the band.

This is not a guarantee of location of the parade,
or the identity of the photographer,
but it might also be a clue.
One never knows, do one?

I guess we can also make the assumption that whoever took these snapshots was a family member (or hoped to become one) of one of those majorettes. Or, maybe Miss Eastern Iowa 1947 had been a member, and asked a friend to get pix of everybody, since she couldn't march with them. 

Boots – boots – boots – boots, movin' up an' down again.

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A Handful of Snapshots

 Still more pix which were hiding among my postcards.

I've scanned and slightly cleaned up this handful of snapshots

and a sales pitch from… somewhere...

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Generations, and How They Happen

It's a story not all will appreciate

 
One more dive into the boxes of photographs I acquired from auction... 

I'm almost gonna miss this crowd, now that I've cleared out another box into my digital archive. Except for the allergies…


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One day, the girl next door
comes of age

and a few years later, the boy 
grows up enough to notice her.

To him, she looks angelic

in any pose

from flirty 

to scholarly

he's always stunned by her loveliness

and brooks no competition
for her affection.

She notices no others.

He puts on his
most noble countenance.

She dresses to earn his attentions

causing the other girls to
scowl in envy.

She waits patiently for the special day

and contemplates her life ahead, when
she wears his wedding ring.

She wishes he would hurry
into her arms,

worries, sometimes,
at love's uncertainties

but is determined they will
be together, forever.

He thinks he's in control of his life

but is mostly in confusion

until he finally screws up his courage

and asks her father for her hand.

Her mother approves. Sort of.

His mother, not so much.

But they are betrothed

Father prepares to give the bride away

and then the two young lovers
are united in matrimony.

The honeymoon leaves them
exhausted, and then…

…ten years and nine children later, 
they're no longer those spry young lovers
you met long ago.