A big thumbs up

[artsyone]

 Begosh and Begorrah! The luck of my Irish is with us! I've made friends with with a man who is bringing us his automobile and has given us directions to one of our fair cities foremost parks just past Mohawk Street. He tells me it's very lovely there and very quiet, just the thing I need to sooth my frayed nerves whilst conducting this tour. But, look there, me Boy-o, a large group approaching, shouting that they have reserved the next tour!! I've just barely put together the last one! So, you want me to take just the children? Well, I suppose I could, but I warn you, I myself an unmarried and childless and not much of an uncle to my nieces and nephews. I once left them unattended at Woolworths when I went to the betting parlour to check on my horses, and forgot about them. By the time I got back the little urchins had loosed all the parakeets, twisted all the tops off of the vials of Atom Bomb ladies cologne and were on their way up the escalator to the second floor to do violence to the floor walker. By the way? What have you got to eat? Some dried prunes, wheat germ and ex lax? I do say, Mrs. Flark packs a hefty picnic basket, a repast fit for a king on a throne, but I decline, for reasons both obvious and obscure.

[artsyone]

[artsyone]

Seriously folks, you can't make this stuff up!!

[artsyone]

The Tour Begins! 

(Beware the red headed stepchild!!)

Don't you think this is such a nice part of the city?? Besides the local locomotive cutting through your yard, everyone seems so cordial, smiling a nd nodding knowingly when I show them my map. Well, here we are!! Granted the fellow at the gate seems rather glum, even grave, so to speak, but we can never know just how long he's been standing there waiting for his wife to show up with the picnic basket; speaking of which, Laura Lee darling, it's not nice to shove little Billy's head into Mrs. Flarc's picnic basket, even if it it filled with boxes of luscious little chocolate bits. We need to save them and pass them out to all the children. Sharing is caring .

[artsyone]

     

Heading into Roscoe Conkling Park. ( again) : beware the red headed stepchild!

[artsyone]

    I had rather thought Roscoe Conkling Park would look like this:

[artsyone]

       I have heard that Roscoe Conkling Park....which runs up to the South Woods has some beautiful views.

[artsyone]

     Oh my. I hadn't expected a park with such dark overtones, masonry and statuary. But, oh children, this is lovely, don't you think? That Mr. Proctor has thought of everything. Are these benches? What's that you say, Billy, there are dead people under there and you can't sit there? No? Well, then let's all look for a picnic table and how about one of those metal tubs you make a fire in so as to prepare our picnic victuals? You know, those new red tubular things, those whatchamacallits they serve at the ball park with mustard. What's that you say Billy? You need a toilet? Well, there must be one around here somewhere. Oh, where is our Mrs. F when we need her. She knows everything. No! No! Not there Billy...that's....

[artsyone]

        

Billy, pull you're zipper up young man! What's that you say...you're going to explode? I'm sure a bathroom is just over the next hill. You see other people here, Timmy? They're all wearing black? Well, everyone wears black in this century. Oh, they're floating in the air? I'm sure it's just an optical illusion. Look for a step stool next time you see them and no, don't try to eat them. They are tough and not tasty.

[artsyone]

     Oh my goodness! Here's my tipsy old great Aunt Mable who went face down into a hot bowl of mashed potatoes one Sunday afternoon after mass. She was talking a blue streak...telling on one of the neighbors...when her elbow slipped on the tablecloth and she flipped over into the bowl. She never stopped talking, just hauled herself up from the floor and wiped the potatoes from her face with father's napkin, which she  had snatched from his neck on her way down. Father, as always, remained unruffled and continue to offer her some asparagus from the cut glass bowl. "I'm so terribly, terribly sorry" she mumbled. "I seem to have gotten a bit clumsy as of late since I began to imbibe  Dr. Messerschmitt's Daily Elixer of Life." "You should only take that before bed", countered father. "Oh", she cried! "You evil and wicked man! I'd never be able to finish the bottle if I waited that long!"

[artsyone]

     

Little Billy seems to be missing! Can you find Little Billy?

[artsyone]

     

Proctor's Park.

     Well, children, this is a definate improvement over the last park. I've heard from Mrs F. at the Nunnery and she is on way to rescue us. I do wish we could find your parents, children. This doesn't seem like the same park where we were to meet Mrs. F. She specifically said " At the top of Seymour Ave." But, she knows her geography and we will wait right her for her to find us.

[artsyone]

     

     Mrs. F. has finally written: "Proctor's Park!!! Damn! I though you said the Piccadilly!"

[artsyone]

Dispose of your ugly children here!

     Well, I don't know just what to think!! Who left you here my little one? You're Uncle Waddy?? He said he'd be right back? He just nipped around the corner for a little... A little what... Oh, don't say that or I'll have to put my hands over my ears!! Well, just come along with us and don't worry about your Uncle Waddy. We'll let Mrs. F. deal with him, if we ever see her again...

[artsyone]

              Utica NY
              May 16th
         1908

         My Dear Dear Mrs. F.

               I am enclosing this bottle of Finnegan's Alcoholic Miracle Eye Glass Cleaner for you approval. See just how grand Proctor Park looks after the use of this wonderful world renowned elixer with your morning tea? Just a twist of the wrist and a snap of your garter and you're ready to go! Finnegan's Miracle Alcoholic Eye Glass Cleaner makes everything better, sparks up your get-along. Finnegan's: good for what ails you whenever it ails you!

                    Ever Faithful and always at your service,
                                 Your friend,
                                 David Griffin, Esquire