Picnic Fun Quotes

And what about us? Do you want a vampire boyfriend?" He laughed bitterly. "Because I forsee many romantic picnics in our future. You, drinking a virgin piña colada. Me, drinking the blood of a virgin.

All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.

The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind happiness not always being so very much fun if you don't mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine because even in heaven they don't sing all the time The world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't mind some people dying all the time or maybe only starving some of the time which isn't half bad if it isn't you Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into if you don't much mind a few dead minds in the higher places or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregations and congressional investigations and other constipations that our fool flesh is heir to Yes the world is the best place of all for a lot of such things as making the fun scene and making the love scene and making the sad scene and singing low songs and having inspirations and walking around looking at everything and smelling flowers and goosing statues and even thinking and kissing people and making babies and wearing pants and waving hats and dancing and going swimming in rivers on picnics in the middle of the summer and just generally 'living it up' Yes but then right in the middle of it comes the smiling mortician

Remember at the junior picnic, when someone whipped that dog at Jennifer's head? And Jennifer was laughing, like it was funny? Ted never copped to it, but I know he did it. I saw him. A-hole.' Rachel shakes her head in disgust. 'She probably deals with that kind of crap every day...' 'That's it. I'm going to ask Jennifer if she wants to sit with us today... I don't like those little turds thinking they can make fun of her because she's on the list. Don't they have any respect for the fact that she's a senior? If she's with us, they wouldn't dare say anything.

Just then another fairy fluttered down the path. Kirsty and Rachel recognized the strawberry curls and shimmering blue vest right away — it was Polly the Party Fun Fairy! “I’m here to organize the picnic party games,” Polly explained, “but they keep going wrong! The donkey for Pin the Tail on the Donkey wandered away. Even

The team is showing its appreciation to the host families by taking them to a water park on Sunday. I know Mac is going out of town, but I thought you might still want to go. I mean, not as a date or anything. I’m going to invite the whole family.” “You don’t have to work Sunday?” “I got scheduled off.” “Sounds like fun. We could pack a picnic lunch--” “I’ll take care of that. As my thank you. All you have to do is bring yourself.” “And a bathing suit.” He grinned. “Yeah, and a bathing suit.” “And a towel. And suntan lotion…” “Maybe it’d be simpler if I just said I’ll take care of the tickets and eats.” “Okay, but I’ll go ahead and warn you not to take it personally that Mom and Dad aren’t really into water parks. It’s that whole not-using-the-exercise-equipment-as-intended thing Dad has going.” His grin grew. “I won’t take it personally.” “Okay, then, Sunday.” As though suddenly realized how intimate it seemed to be in my bedroom, he cleared his throat and took a step back. He gave my room one more look and took another step back. “It’s amazing what a room can reveal.” Then he walked down the hallway and knocked on Tiffany’s door. I wondered what he’d discover looking into her room.

The biggest fear for homeschooled children is that they will be unable to relate to their peers, will not have friends, or that they will otherwise be unable to interact with people in a normal way. Consider this: How many of your daily interactions with people are solely with people of your own birth year?  We’re not considering interactions with people who are a year or two older or a year or two younger, but specifically people who were born within a few months of your birthday. In society, it would be very odd to section people at work by their birth year and allow you to interact only with persons your same age. This artificial constraint would limit your understanding of people and society across a broader range of ages. In traditional schools, children are placed in grades artificially constrained by the child’s birth date and an arbitrary cut-off day on a school calendar. Every student is taught the same thing as everyone else of the same age primarily because it is a convenient way to manage a large number of students. Students are not grouped that way because there is any inherent special socialization that occurs when grouping children in such a manner. Sectioning off children into narrow bands of same-age peers does not make them better able to interact with society at large. In fact, sectioning off children in this way does just the opposite—it restricts their ability to practice interacting with a wide variety of people. So why do we worry about homeschooled children’s socialization?  The erroneous assumption is that the child will be homeschooled and will be at home, schooling in the house, all day every day, with no interactions with other people. Unless a family is remotely located in a desolate place away from any form of civilization, social isolation is highly unlikely. Every homeschooling family I know involves their children in daily life—going to the grocery store or the bank, running errands, volunteering in the community, or participating in sports, arts, or community classes. Within the homeschooled community, sports, arts, drama, co-op classes, etc., are usually sectioned by elementary, pre-teen, and teen groupings. This allows students to interact with a wider range of children, and the interactions usually enhance a child’s ability to interact well with a wider age-range of students. Additionally, being out in the community provides many opportunities for children to interact with people of all ages. When homeschooling groups plan field trips, there are sometimes constraints on the age range, depending upon the destination, but many times the trip is open to children of all ages. As an example, when our group went on a field trip to the Federal Reserve Bank, all ages of children attended. The tour and information were of interest to all of the children in one way or another. After the tour, our group dined at a nearby food court. The parents sat together to chat and the children all sat with each other, with kids of all ages talking and having fun with each other. When interacting with society, exposure to a wider variety of people makes for better overall socialization. Many homeschooling groups also have park days, game days, or play days that allow all of the children in the homeschooled community to come together and play. Usually such social opportunities last for two, three, or four hours. Our group used to have Friday afternoon “Park Day.”  After our morning studies, we would pack a picnic lunch, drive to the park, and spend the rest of the afternoon letting the kids run and play. Older kids would organize games and play with younger kids, which let them practice great leadership skills. The younger kids truly looked up to and enjoyed being included in games with the older kids.

Marlboro Man was out of town, on a trip to the southern part of the state, looking at farm ground, the night I began conceiving of the best way to arrange the reception menu. I was splayed on my bed in sweats, staring at the ceiling, when suddenly I gave birth to The Idea: one area of the country club would be filled with gold bamboo chairs, architecturally arranged orchids and roses, and antique lace table linens. Violins would serenade the guests as they feasted on cold tenderloin and sipped champagne. Martha Stewart would be present in spirit and declare, “This is my daughter, whom I love. In her I am well pleased.” Martha’s third cousin Mabel would prefer the ballroom on the other end of the club, however, which would be the scene of an authentic chuck wagon spread: barbecue, biscuits and gravy, fried chicken, Coors Light. Blue-checkered tablecloths would adorn the picnic tables, a country band would play “All My Exes Live in Texas,” and wildflowers would fill pewter jugs throughout the room. I smiled, imagining the fun. In one fell swoop, our two worlds--Marlboro Man’s country and my country club--would collide, combine, and unite in a huge, harmonious feast, one that would officially usher in my permanent departure from city life, cappuccino, and size 6 clothes.

In modern church life, we often leave the nave to have "fellowship" with one another at social functions in the basement, and we are sometimes invited to "fun and fellowship" at games nights or congregational picnics. These are inappropriate usages of the word "fellowship" (which translates the New Testament κοινωνία), for the human interaction that takes place in church basements and public parks can be shared without a qualm with Christians of other confession and even with the irreligious and pagans. True κοινωνία begins with baptismal admission into the church (δι' οὗ ἐκλήθητε εἰς κοινωνίαν τοῦ υἱοῦ αὐτοῦ 'Ιησοῦ Χριστοῦ τοῦ κυρίου ἡμῶν, 1 Cor 1:9) and culminates in the fellowship granted through common partaking of the holy things; as such, it is entirely distinct from all Adamic-earthly gatherings, being the supernatural product of divine monergism.

The Stoics, as we have seen, advise us to pursue tranquility, and as part of their strategy for attaining it they advise us to engage in negative visualization. But isn’t this contradictory advice? Suppose, for example, that a Stoic is invited to a picnic. While the other picnickers are enjoying themselves, the Stoic will sit there, quietly contemplating ways the picnic could be ruined: “Maybe the potato salad is spoiled, and people will get food poisoning. Maybe someone will break an ankle playing softball. Maybe there will be a violent thunderstorm that will scatter the picnickers. Maybe I will be struck by lightning and die.” This sounds like no fun at all. But more to the point, it seems unlikely that a Stoic will gain tranquility as a result of entertaining such thoughts. To the contrary, he is likely to end up glum and anxiety-ridden. In response to this objection, let me point out that it is a mistake to think Stoics will spend all their time contemplating potential catastrophes. It is instead something they will do periodically: A few times each day or a few times each week a Stoic will pause in his enjoyment of life to think about how all this, all these things he enjoys, could be taken from him. Furthermore, there is a difference between contemplating something bad happening and worrying about it. Contemplation is an intellectual exercise, and it is possible for us to conduct such exercises without its affecting our emotions. It is possible, for example, for a meteorologist to spend her days contemplating tornadoes without subsequently living in dread of being killed by one. In similar fashion, it is possible for a Stoic to contemplate bad things that can happen without becoming anxiety-ridden as a result. Finally, negative visualization, rather than making people glum, will increase the extent to which they enjoy the world around them, inasmuch as it will prevent them from taking that world for granted. Despite - or rather, because of - his (occasional) gloomy thoughts, the Stoic will likely enjoy the picnic far more than the other picnickers who refuse to entertain similarly gloomy thoughts; he will take delight in being part of an event that, he fully realizes, might not have taken place.

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

Nevaeh- I believe I am never going to go around with little dreams anymore, I will not have a contained mind; I am always going to be positive if I can, and dream big. Knowing that it all can, and will be coming true if only I believe that it will. I know that I should never get stuck in a rut, for the reason that I do not know the whole plan that has been set for me. When you think like this, you can, and will break forth; this is when you will see an increase and praise. I hope that all our dreams come true, and we can all start anew. I hope that we can think, all our choices. Now I am hoping that I can let you know that, you have an angel too. I hope that everything is going to work out for you. The angels will save you and me, in times that we are on our knees. I hope the tower and its clans will forever let me be. I hope that everything will be understood so all of you can see. (About six months back) Nevaeh- The night that I was saved differently, I am only sixteen but the time is right. I could not stand living here another day or night, in ‘The Land of Many Steeples’ in the house of lost and lonely dreams, it was time for me to spread my wings and fly away from this land of misery. The day finally came and he saved me from the hell that is part of my existence. The boxy chariot with its small oblong taillights arrived near my doorstep. He greeted me with the presence of compassion. For I was looking down from the window, yes it was supposed to just be another date night. Yes, he arrived to sweep me off my feet once again and take me away. Hope was not very pleased with the onset of him being in my life… But there was nothing she could do. At last, I was content, and that is all that mattered. She would not let me go on my dates, so I waited around until it was night outside, and she was asleep! That is when I would sneak out, and get away for a while, with him. Yet I think I got pregnant on date number one, yet I am not sure. (Looking back) I remember all the dates; we would drive through the town at night, and do all kinds of wild things. Besides, look at the stars in the back of his ford bronco truck with a blanket at our spot, as the baby was asleep inside of me, this was about four months ago, or so. (The first days together as a couple.) Some of our dates started right after my school day, he would come and get me, and I would not come home until my curfew or not at all. We did not have much money, yet we always had fun just being together. Like this one time, we went kayaking in our swimsuits on the gently flowing river, and then afterward we had a picnic lunch, simple dates, but always fun. Yeah, that is right, we only had three normal dates before; I know I was indeed going to have a baby. Our craziness slowed down a lot after that fact, yet we still went out.

ay cheese!" If you're like most women I know, you have at least one family and friends photo area in your home. My entire home is practically a photo gallery! Walls, tabletops, and my refrigerator door are all crowded with the faces of people I love. My husband, Bob, my children, grandchildren, new friends, old friends you name 'em and I've displayed 'em. How precious are these gatherings of faces to us. And it's so fitting, isn't it? Because our family and friends' pictures tell the story of their lives.. .and ours! Cherish your family and friends and those priceless moments. Hold them close. Seek out your friends and enjoy their company more often. Treasure their faces, their characteristics, their uniqueness. But also make room for new people.. .and add them to the gallery in your heart. ant to hold a spring garden party? It can be a birthday, a graduation, or just a celebration. For invitations, glue inexpensive packets of seeds to index cards and write in your party information. Pass them out or stick them in envelopes and mail them. Decorate a picnic table with an umbrella and bright floral sheets or vinyl cloths. Why not decorate the awnings and porch posts to make it even more festive? Flowers, flowers, and flowers everywhere create a bright, aromatic space. If you're limber and energetic or you're inviting kids, spread sheets on the ground for an authentic, old-fashioned picnic. A little red wagon or painted tub with a potted plant makes a fun off-to-the-side "centerpiece." Use a clean watering can for your lemonade pitcher. Engage your imagination and have fun entertaining.

Jesus invited us not to a picnic, but to a pilgrimage; not to a frolic, but to a fight. He offered us not an excursion, but an execution.

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What can I say to you, darling, When you ask me for help? I do not even know the future Or even what poetry We are going to write. Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people Than either of us have tried it. I loved you once but I do not know the future. I only know that I love strength in my friends And greatness And hate the way their bodies crack when they die And are eaten by images. The fun’s over. The picnic’s over. Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left After you die or go mad, But the calmness of poetry." — Jack Spicer, A Poem Without a Single Bird in It

What can I say to you, darling, When you ask me for help? I do not even know the future Or even what poetry We are going to write. Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people Than either of us have tried it. I loved you once but I do not know the future. I only know that I love strength in my friends And greatness And hate the way their bodies crack when they die And are eaten by images. The fun’s over. The picnic’s over. Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left After you die or go mad, But the calmness of poetry." — Jack Spicer, "A Poem Without a Single Bird in It

Benny hopped up on a stool to watch Grandfather flipping pancakes. “Your pancakes smell different than Mrs. McGregor’s,” said Benny. “Do they?” Grandfather asked. He leaned over and sniffed. “You’re right,” he said. “That’s because Mrs. McGregor makes everything from scratch.” Mrs. McGregor was the Alden’s housekeeper. She was on vacation in Ireland. Grandfather slid a spatula under the pancakes. He began lifting them from the griddle onto a platter. “Since I’m not much of a cook, I made these pancakes with Panquake mix.” Benny laughed. “You mean pancake mix.” “Nope,” said Grandfather. He nodded at a box on the counter. Its big letters said Panquakes—The pancake mix that’s fun to fix. Jessie showed Benny the lettering. “See? The name of this pancake mix is Panquakes, so the first letter is a capital P.” Violet grinned. “Like the capital V in my name. The color violet doesn’t have a capital V, but a person named Violet does.” “Well, however you spell it,” said Benny, “I’m going to eat it.” Just as Grandfather finished putting the pancakes onto the platter, his office phone rang. “I’ve been expecting an important business call,” he said, hurrying down the hall. “Go ahead and eat. I’ll join you as soon as I can.” As Jessie lifted the platter of pancakes, a cool morning breeze blew through the kitchen window. “Let’s picnic out at the boxcar,” she said.

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Negative people can be like emotional black holes, sucking the joy out of any room they enter. It's like trying to have a picnic in a thunderstorm – not exactly a recipe for fun. So, instead of getting caught up in their storm of negativity, why not bask in the sunshine of positivity elsewhere? Surround yourself with people who radiate good vibes and uplift your spirits. Life's too short to dwell in pessimism when you could be dancing in the sunlight of optimism.

tried not to think about the time before Mum died. The three of them had been so happy. Dad had settled into a good job, buildings manager for a large company headquarters after years working worldwide as a project manager on construction sites. Mum worked part time in a creche for babies and toddlers, and Matt was in his first year at senior school, making new friends, struggling a bit during French and English lessons but doing well at maths and enjoying the chance to show his skills at football. Weekends were brilliant. Picnics and trips to adventure parks, the seaside, football matches, the swimming pool – always the three of them together, having fun, laughing. Then, just a year ago, it ended. On one of her days off Mum had gone shopping in the nearest big town. A gang of older boys racing along the pavement had knocked her into the path of a bus and she had died before an ambulance could reach the scene. After that all Matt could remember was the silence. The silent house, Dad sitting huddled in front of the television screen, the volume turned to mute, Matt sitting in his bedroom not knowing what to do, feeling it was wrong to play computer games or phone his mates. His mates were silent anyway – they didn’t know what to say to someone whose Mum had been killed so suddenly and shockingly.

It took me some time to realize this was my family— this stoic, forthright little regiment of women, all exceptionally well read, well spoken, each one a skilled athlete —all staunch and devout members of the Audubon Society. Most weekends became, from dawn to dusk, one long bird-watching expedition as, armed to the teeth with picnic bas-kets, cameras and field glasses, they made their reverent way into the deep woods, treading as softly as Indians with me in tow. Not too much fun for yours truly. In spite of what the poets say, youth is not always the happiest of seasons. None of my aunts ever bothered to conceal their displeasure at my ignorance on the subject of ornithology and remained for the most part coolly disapproving. Until one day when I petulantly ran from an unfinished lunch to seek relief in the great outdoors —there, on top of a spruce which was bent over from the weight of it, sat an enormous bird with strange claws the likes of which I'd never seen. Forgetting all unsettled scores, I ran back inside and announced my discovery.

There's no messing with perfection. (Okay, a little messing, just for fun.) A few crystals of coarse sea salt, a drizzle of local olive oil, and a sprig or two of purple basil. Sliced and layered in a white ceramic dish, the tomatoes often match the hues of the local sunsets--- reds and golds, yellows and pinks. If there were such a thing in our house as "too pretty to eat," this would be it. Thankfully, there's not. If I'm not exactly cooking, I have done some impromptu matchmaking: baby tomatoes with smoked mozzarella, red onions, fennel, and balsamic vinegar. A giant yellow tomato with a local sheep's milk cheese and green basil. Last night I got a little fancy and layered slices of beefsteak tomato with pale green artichoke puree and slivers of Parmesan. I constructed the whole thing to look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I love to think of the utterly pretentious name this would be given in a trendy Parisian bistro: Millefeuille de tomate provençale, tapenade d'artichaut et coppa de parmesan d'Italie (AOC) sur son lit de salade, sauce aigre douce aux abricots. And of course, since this is a snooty Parisian bistro and half their clientele are Russian businessmen, the English translation would be printed just below: Tomato napoleon of artichoke tapenade and aged Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese on a bed of mixed greens with sweet-and-sour apricot vinaigrette. The sauce abricot was a happy accident. While making the dressing for the green salad, I mistook a bottle of peach/apricot syrup for the olive oil. Since I didn't realize my mistake until it was at the bottom of the bowl, I decided to try my luck. Mixed with Dijon mustard and some olive oil, it was very nice--- much sweeter than a French vinaigrette, more like an American-style honey Dijon. I decided to add it to my pretentious Parisian bistro dish because, believe it or not, Parisian bistros love imitating American food. Anyone who has been in Paris in the past five years will note the rise of le Tchizzberger. (That's bistro for "cheeseburger.") I'm moderate in my use of social media, but I can't stop taking pictures of the tomatoes. Close up, I've taken to snapping endless photos of the voluptuously rounded globes. I rejoice in the mingling of olive oil and purply-red flesh. Basil leaves rest like the strategically placed tassels of high-end strippers. Crystals of sea salt catch the afternoon sun like rhinestones under the glaring lights of the Folies Bergère. I may have invented a whole new type of food photography: tomato porn.

I was trying to apologize,” she said, relief and humor easing into her eyes and curving her lips. “You didn’t answer my question.” He thought he might snap off the end of the pier, he was gripping it so hard. In response, she ducked her hand into the pocket of her shorts and pulled out a folded and now somewhat crumpled piece of paper. “Here. Read for yourself.” He took the paper, realizing he was acting like a complete yobbo, and knew then that perhaps he wasn’t nearly so cool and levelheaded about this whole endeavor as he’d led her to believe. The truth of it being, he only really wanted her to figure out what would make her happy if what made her happy was him. Under her amused stare, he unfolded the paper and read: Dear Hook, I’m trying to be a good and supportive sister and help get Fiona and her ridiculously long veil down the aisle before I strangle her into submission with every hand-beaded, pearl-seeded foot of it. At the moment, sitting here knee-deep in crinolines and enough netting to outfit every member of Downton Abbey, I can’t safely predict a win in that ongoing effort. That said, I’d much rather be spending the time with you, sailing the high seas on our pirate ship. Especially that part where we stayed anchored in one spot for an afternoon and all the plundering was going on aboard our own boat. I’ve been thinking a lot about everything everyone has said and have come to the conclusion that the only thing I’m sure of is that I’m thinking too much. I’ve decided it was better when I was just feeling things and not thinking endlessly about them. I especially liked the things I was feeling on our picnic for two. So this is all to say I’d like to go, um, sailing again. Even if there’s no boat involved this time. I hope you won’t think less of me for the request, but please take seeing a whole lot more of me as a consolation prize if you do. Also? Save me. Or send bail money. Sincerely, Starfish, Queen of the High Seas, Plunderer of Pirates, especially those with a really clever right Hook. He was smiling and shaking his head as he folded the note closed and tucked it in his shirt pocket. “Well?” she said at length. “Apology accepted” was all he said. “And?” He slid a look her way. “And…what?” She’d made him wait three days, and punitive or not, he wasn’t in any hurry to put her out of her misery. Plus, when he did, it was likely to be that much more fun. “You’re going to make me spell it out, aren’t you? Don’t you realize it was hard enough just putting it in writing?” “I accept your lovely invitation,” he said, then added, “I only have one caveat.” Her relief turned to wary suspicion as she eyed him. “Oh? And that would be?” “Will you wear the crinolines?

As they tramped in, Temo turned from the big stone barbecue with a long grilling fork in his hand. He froze at the sight of Dayna. Once more, it was as though the two of them were alone in the sunny ramada with its roof of woven grass and the light filtering through on their faces. No one else mattered. A short woman with her hair piled on her head hurried from behind the barbecue with a platter of tacos in her hand. “Temo, aren’t you going to introduce me to your new friends?” she asked with a smile. “Temo, what is wrong? Are you sick?” “No, Madre,” Temo muttered, but he still couldn’t take his eyes off Dayna. Dayna’s mother, Brenda Regis, picked that exact moment to stride in from the spa. “Howdy, everybody,” she crooned. “Hope you’re all hungry as coyotes.” She glanced at her daughter, who was still gazing at Temo with lovesick eyes. “Dayna, what’s the matter with you, honey?” She looked Dayna up and down, then her eyes went to Temo, and then to Temo’s mother. The two women stiffened. Say something, Sophie prayed silently to Dayna. Order Temo around in that bossy voice of yours. Quick, before your mother and his mother figure this out. But Dayna stood stunned, incapable of speech. Sophie gave Liv a nudge. “Follow my lead,” she whispered and then in a louder voice shouted, “Hey, is this a good time to break the piñata?” She dived forward to snatch the long fork from Temo’s hand. “Whee!” she shouted. “Fun! Come on, everybody. Let’s see what’s inside!” She poked at the paper horse. Liv grabbed a barbecue brush and bashed at it too. Cheyenne and Hailey joined in with shouts of glee. The paper horse flew to pieces, scattering small objects and cactus candy all over the picnic table. Some fell into the punch bowl with a splash. More landed in the salad plate. Laughter and confusion broke the spell of tension in the air as they all dived for the piñata’s. Dayna snapped out of her trance. “Look what I’ve got!” She held up a plastic whistle, then blew a shrill note. “Time to eat, everybody.” Temo turned back to the barbecue. The spell was broken, the danger past. His mother, Marita, gave him another frightened glance, but went on laying food on the table. Dayna’s mother picked a piece of candy out of her hair and said, “Well! We usually break the piñata after the meal, but I suppose it doesn’t really matter.

Just then another fairy fluttered down the path. Kirsty and Rachel recognized the strawberry curls and shimmering blue vest right away — it was Polly the Party Fun Fairy! “I’m here to organize the picnic party games,” Polly explained, “but they keep going wrong! The donkey for Pin the Tail on the Donkey wandered away. Even the balloons have gone flat.

For the life of me, I can’t comprehend why any black man with even a lick of sense would have the slightest bit of interest in time travel. Going backward in time? A black man? You have got to be out of your mind. “Why are you laughing? This is serious business. I am telling you the truth now. You give a white man a time machine and he’s gonna think about going on vacation! He’ll think it might be fun to go check out the 1960s, or ancient Rome, or something. He will jump in that time machine, and start twisting dials, and he will have himself a grand old time. He’ll fit in just about anywhere! But can you imagine some crazy black man doing that? Some Carlton Banks–looking jackass strolling up to this time machine with a sweater tied around his neck, toting a picnic basket, thinking this shit is a joke? Next thing Carlton knows, he’s on the Middle Passage! Hundreds of men chained in the hold of a ship, constant wailing and moaning. The guy on one side of him just died two hours ago; the guy on his other side is saying, ‘When I had land beneath my feet I was a prince. Now I am at sea, and I am less than a maggot. When I am taken up to the deck for food and fresh air, I will throw myself over the side, and I will sink beneath the waves. When my feet touch the ocean floor I will become a prince once more.’ Carlton is all shackled up and ready to shit himself, and he’s going, ‘Oh dear me, the conditions of this cruise are most intolerable! Where is the all-you-care-to-eat buffet? Where is the family-friendly stand-up comic? Rest assured I will be writing a stern letter to the proprietors as soon as this is over.’ Hell with that.

Here is what I don’t understand at all. For the life of me, I can’t comprehend why any black man with even a lick of sense would have the slightest bit of interest in time travel. Going backward in time? A black man? You have got to be out of your mind. “Why are you laughing? This is serious business. I am telling you the truth now. You give a white man a time machine and he’s gonna think about going on vacation! He’ll think it might be fun to go check out the 1960s, or ancient Rome, or something. He will jump in that time machine, and start twisting dials, and he will have himself a grand old time. He’ll fit in just about anywhere! But can you imagine some crazy black man doing that? Some Carlton Banks–looking jackass strolling up to this time machine with a sweater tied around his neck, toting a picnic basket, thinking this shit is a joke? Next thing Carlton knows, he’s on the Middle Passage! Hundreds of men chained in the hold of a ship, constant wailing and moaning. The guy on one side of him just died two hours ago; the guy on his other side is saying, ‘When I had land beneath my feet I was a prince. Now I am at sea, and I am less than a maggot. When I am taken up to the deck for food and fresh air, I will throw myself over the side, and I will sink beneath the waves. When my feet touch the ocean floor I will become a prince once more.’ Carlton is all shackled up and ready to shit himself, and he’s going, ‘Oh dear me, the conditions of this cruise are most intolerable! Where is the all-you-care-to-eat buffet? Where is the family-friendly stand-up comic? Rest assured I will be writing a stern letter to the proprietors as soon as this is over.’ Hell with that. “I’m telling you, Terence: time travel is something only a white man would think is a good idea, and he is welcome to it, as far as I’m concerned.

A Poem Without a Single Bird in It" What can I say to you, darling, When you ask me for help? I do not even know the future Or even what poetry We are going to write. Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people Than either of us have tried it. I loved you once but I do not know the future. I only know that I love strength in my friends And greatness And hate the way their bodies crack when they die And are eaten by images. The fun’s over. The picnic’s over. Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left After you die or go mad, But the calmness of poetry.

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Just think of it as a picnic with guns and monsters instead of mosquitoes and ants. Do we have fun or what?

The next morning, I was finally able to have a proper look at the “NOC.” The place looked like some bizarre mountainous Disney Land at first glance. It wasn’t a town and there weren’t any houses to be seen anywhere. It was simply an area that was completely dedicated to having fun in the mountains and on the river. Everything was built on and centered along the large, Nantahala River that flowed swiftly past. There was a restaurant, an amazing outfitting store, gazebos, picnic areas, and places to rent kayaks and rafts to partake in river adventures. It was one of the most unique and fun looking locations I encountered on the journey. DSOH,

Fun 4 All Party Rentals provides bounce house rentals, water slides and more to Dallas, Fort Worth, Waxahachie, Midlothian, Ennis, & surrounding areas in Texas. We also carry a large assortment of inflatables, interactive games, carnival games, event tents for weddings, table and chair rentals and more. Whether you're having a school field day, a church picnic, a corporate event or a backyard birthday party, Fun 4 All Party Rentals has you covered.

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For the best bounce house rentals St. Louis has to offer, turn to the experts at Jammin Jumpers. We carry fun inflatable rentals like bounce houses and more. We also have a huge selection of inflatable water slides, obstacle courses, carnival games and more. Whether you're having a school event, a church picnic, a corporate event or a backyard birthday party, you can trust that Jammin Jumpers will have just what you're looking for in St. Louis, Belleville, IL and surrounding areas.

He didn’t have to tell me that. I knew Hank better than anyone else. He went out of his way not to hurt people. “And I love you even more for it. But you should know, I’m willing to be hurt because that’s what love is.” Hank stared at me out of the corners of his eyes. Clearly he was questioning my sanity. “It’s true,” I said with a firm nod. “It’s not always hot sex and romantic candlelit dinners. Or picnics in the park or fun days at the zoo. True love exists in the gaps between those moments. It’s in the arguments, where you’re so angry at each other that you may want to throw a tantrum and walk out the door, but you don’t. It lives in the hard times when one of you is sick or exhausted, and you have to carry each other for miles with no rest, and even though your body aches and you want to let go, you don’t.” “I don’t think I’ve ever known that kind of love.” He glanced at his hands in his lap. “My relationships have always been the bad kind. Where one of us gives up or gives in.” “Well, love that is worth anything isn’t like that. It blooms in the dead of winter because we have fed its soul in the spring and summer. That is what I fight for. You may not feel what I do because you lack the memories I have, but you feel something. I can see it in the way you look at me or touch me, and I can see you fighting it. Maybe because you’re afraid of hurting me or because you don’t understand what these emotions are. I don’t really know, but you should know this: Fighting it won’t make it go away, and it won’t change how our story will end. We will get married. We will grow old together. And before we breathe our last, the final words we will utter will be each other’s names.

A Poem Without a Single Bird in It" "What can I say to you, darling, When you ask me for help? I do not even know the future Or even what poetry We are going to write. Commit suicide. Go mad. Better people Than either of us have tried it. I loved you once but I do not know the future. I only know that I love strength in my friends And greatness And hate the way their bodies crack when they die And are eaten by images. The fun’s over. The picnic’s over. Go mad. Commit suicide. There will be nothing left After you die or go mad, But the calmness of poetry.