There was the Chicago scene with bathtub gin,
fast parties, flappers
and silk tie gangsters.
Then there was The Big Apple
with smokey speakeasies, mellow jazz,
poets and anarchists.
Hollywood had the dashing Doug Fairbanks
and tinsel sprinkled by the
glamorous Jean Harlow.
In Paris the Lost Generation was
writing out the pain of The War.
All over the country the Stock Market was
going up and up and up
and life was good and fast.
To be alive in '23 was to wake up
with a knowing smile
that forecast whatever it was,
it would be better by nightfall.
But not much of all this
in my home town.
There '23 was a time for big sweaters,
greased pompadours,
funny hats, dresses, and cars.
Football and cars, basketball and cars,
touring and cars,
visiting the family farm and cars
But most of all picnics and cars.
Serious grandparents and cars at picnics,
courting couples and picnics by the car,
smiling couples and children at picnics
on the running boards of their cars.
Take a moment
and look at the cars in photos
with Stonewall, and Monument Lake,
Whiskey Crick, Cucharis Pass, North Lake,
Blue Lake, and Model in the background.
Wherever a picture could be taken
there were the cars looking
like the family dog with wheels.
All the excitement in the world packed
into the engine of a Model T.
Why, if I had all the 1923 cars
in my photo album
I could sell them to Harrah's for enough
money to buy Haiti, Cuba and still
be able to picnic every day
as they did in my home town
in 19 hundred and 23.