Don’t know who these folks are or where this was taken, but it looks to be the 1930s, according to the dresses and hairstyles. I like the ribbons in the girls’ hair, and the restless boys who can’t sit still.
I especially fancy this dress!
But I do wonder why this fella was left holding the baby.
Remember 1902? Me, neither. This book does. It’s all sorts of “m” words: musky, mildewy, moldy. That’s what happens when you’re over 100. You can see the date at the very bottom.
It’s chock full of stories, poems, and pictures by dead people. This groom looks rather serene on his honeymoon. He basks in the memory of the previous night, while she chooses which add-ins to order for her three-egg omelette. Sounds about right.
Included is a Poe poem (aha! one letter’s difference!), which inspired the post title. No, I don’t know what it means. If I did, my blog would be called, “I Very Much Get It.” Clearly, I do not.
I also don’t get why this painting is titled “Bringing Home The Bride.” Whose home is this?
Pardon me, but why are there old people at her home? Why is that septuagenarian helping the bride disrobe in front of her grandpa? Children at bay windows are witnessing this! Gossip is being told to Teddy Roosevelt. Men lifting suitcases on the staircase should mind their own business. Truth be told, the departure from home seems much more lively. Perhaps she should continue departing.
This volume also includes the courtship of not Eddie’s father, but instead, Miles Standish. I particularly enjoy this line: “She could not walk, he said, through the dust and heat of the noonday; Nay, she should ride like a queen, not plod along like a peasant.” I hear that.
And what do you think of this?
This couple gazing admirably at her ring–it’s very sweet, isn’t it? And who wouldn’t be excited to be engaged to the fourth musketeer? FYI, musketeers protected royal families. I wonder if the little babe of Windsor, soon to be birthed, will have its own private musketeer? No, wait, that’s only French royal families. Nevermind.
Here is an excerpt from The Bride of Lammermour:
Oh, my gosh, you guys. Don’t you HATE reading dialect? What the what? How am I to comprehend the mumblings of a paralytic hag? As if.
Now I thought Romeo & Juliet were supposed to be about fourteen years old. Romeo looks considerably older than that in this picture. Like he could possibly see rated R movies. I think we all know what happens next.
And here we are at the precursor to Say Yes To The Dress.
Is that guy the tailor? He seems pretty smug. Or is that the groom? If so, he shouldn’t be seeing her before the wedding. He’s quite the dandy, no? And what’s with the girl? Is she praying for a similar dress one day or already consumed with thoughts of the reception playlist. “Please play ‘Celebrate’ by Kool and the Gang or I shall just die…”
Read this ditty, and you may be disturbed, and I don’t mean by heaving breasts.
I would have had a heaping helping of sassy backtalk from my bridesmaids, should I have forced them to become Corsican like me. Yeesh.
Now observe this lovely portrait.
It takes a village to make a wedding. And a nice top hat.
And don’t kid yourselves, ladies:
Yesterday I was given a stack of Houston newspapers from the week of JFK’s assassination. This November will mark the 50th anniversary of his passing, and I imagine some homage will be paid in the media. I found these brittle browning pages interesting, as they unraveled the course of history.
The page above was from the November 22, 1963 issue of The Houston Chronicle, when all was still well in Camelot. As far as they knew.
Hours later, another photo from the same scene is shown adjacent to a headline declaring “Secret Service Man Reports JFK Dead.”
The country knew that JFK and Texas Governor John Connally had both been shot, but JFK had not been officially pronounced dead.
But by November 23rd, the truth was out.
An article explains how doctors attempted to save the president’s life.
The suspect had been taken into custody.
And then the suspect himself was slain.
Finally, the president was laid to rest in Arlington Cemetery.
And Little John John bid his father farewell.
I was reading a back issue of Saveur magazine this morning (the cover picture of sliced watermelon drew me in), and this picture was on the back page.
Spaghetti swooshing requires no use of one’s hands. Ever heard of such a thing?
Sometimes trees are the enemy.
Hands down, this is the guy. This is the guy you want leaning intimately into you, inviting you to be in cahoots with him, to share the secrets he’s learned on the road.
Forgive me. I was premature in my assumption. THIS is the guy.
Yes, the one with the mutton chops, driving his Rebel Flag-decked out Bandit up to California. Is he sucking a Lemonhead? Is he dipping Skoal? He’s a man of mystery. I just feel a strong sense of… Gary Sandy surrounding him. Yes, that’s it. He must be related to Gary Sandy. You know, Andy Travis from WKRP?
Whoa. Is it hot in here? I’m feeling faint, and it’s not a touch of Johnny Fever. Believe me. Okay, time to refocus. Surely, there’s some trucker in this book who can compete with an aging sitcom star.
Um. No. That is NOT the ticket. Perhaps this young fella?
His head says Yankee, but his body says Confederacy. Who has time for a cocksure whippersnapper with an identity complex? Not me. I haven’t got time for the pain. Okay, let’s spin the wheel. Surely there’s SOMEONE.
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHHHHH! Make it stop!
What else is there for a toddler to do in the aftermath of Nazi-ravaged Warsaw, Poland but skate her cares away in the rubble and cess?*
*My best-guess caption
Wayne is caught up in the ambiance that IS a Pennsylvania truck stop. So filled with anticipation is he of this new day, that he could barely push his hat down on his head. And who could blame him? Just walking into this charming lounge would brighten anyone’s day.
Across this great nation of ours, other truckers speedily consume their meals, rejoicing at the prospect of what the road will offer. George can barely contain himself.
Harlan is busting at the seams. As soon as he finishes this cigarette, it’s out of the comfort of this red booth and into the luxury of the big rig.
Young Buck, Jr is positively stoked to be spending the day with Buck, Sr, rolling across the wide open spaces of Wyoming, counting bug corpses as they splatter on the windshield.
Dick shares a glance with Kevin, a glance that conveys what words never could. Finish up your pie there, son, and let’s hit the road. Back to the snow and the relentless wind. We don’t get paid to sit. Well, technically, we DO, but you know what I mean.
I’m so excited. And I just can’t hide it. Seriously. I convey this both in my posture and my expression, which exude a certain joie de vivre.
All ye men in trucker caps, dig through your cab until you find the mix tape with “Eye of the Tiger” and “Don’t Stop Believing” and play the bejesus out of it until you get your heads on right.
These pics aren’t even from the same STATE, but it looks like the same place, the same hopeless truck stop, filled with men filled with defeat. Seriously, brothers–y’all got to start listening to some Joel Osteen or something. Here, I’ll get you started:
I’m the head and not the tail.
I’m more than a conqueror.
I’m the victor and not the victim.
And just in case you can’t find that mix tape, here’s Jerry Reed’s inspirational “East Bound and Down”:
He may be young, but he’s hardly fresh. With no woman to put his arm around, he chooses the coin-operated TV, with a screen smaller than a Kindle. It’s 2am, and he just filled up the tank of his 18-wheeler. At $3.50 per gallon of diesel fuel, and a 300 gallon tank, that was about a grand. But don’t worry; he gets 5.5 miles per gallon. Excuse me? No wonder he looks miffed.
Sally just took his order, and will be right back to top off his coffee. He hasn’t exercised in weeks years, he spends all day hunched over the wheel, and he neglected to take his multivitamin this morning. But do you think he ordered the Cobb Salad? No, sir. Would you order the Cobb Salad if you just spent an hour adjusting your rear tandems because the moron who loaded your truck put all the weight in the back? I didn’t think so. He ordered the fried beige basket–you know, filled with french fries and fried meat, with a side of toast and gravy–the kind that keeps Dairy Queen (and cardiologists) in business.
Dang, I picked the wrong day to fast.
Now can we just talk about that enchanting clock for a sec? Some mastercraftsman took a piece of wood and rendered an awesome image, and if Billy weren’t so damn jaded, he’d turn around and recognize. Maybe he needs a little Savior’s hand on his left shoulder. What do you think, Billy?
There’s a place not far from here. Get your bearings, get a message. They’ll set you straight.
McDonough, Georgia 1987
I Don't Get It 