Breakfast: Family Camping, 1960

I remember the friezes,
Of tree limbs on canvas,
When soft morning breezes,
Said: "We're not in Kansas!"

Rippling the amber wall,
Shaking out last year's dust,
Filling the dim, canvas hall,
With the smell of vacation stardust.

Barely there, a deliciousness arose,
A dream to awaken my sleepy senses,
Tickling, fondling, caressing my nose:
Exotic, erotic, the way that incense is.

Was that coffee, fresh and mellow?
Was that sausage, spicy and crisp?
The aroma, toasty brown and yellow
Pancakes, stacked -- the wil-o'-my-wisp?

Seeds of chaos, we burst from our tent,
Filling the air with the forest floor.
Unconcerned how the others went,  
Baby birds clamored for more, more, more!

As each of us jockeyed for eating room,
A feeding frenzy raged unabated.
In fifteen minutes twas all consumed;
One dropped a sausage. Picked it up. Ate it.

These memories are a laugh, a great ride,
But for sandwiches, burgers, beans and franks,
Mom and Dad worked so hard to provide,
None of us ever thought to say: "Thanks."

Mick McKellar
December 2023