SUNDAY

by Joan Shepherd

Sunday comes with a wish for an adventure

Let the yard and house chores be

Let’s get in the car and go explore

A different beach or town or a road 

That goes somewhere I don’t know

Find someplace serving hot biscuits

With sausage and eggs

Those choices are at home

And I am a good cook.

Maybe that’s why I need a change

Taste someone else’s cooking

Learn something new

It’s Sunday! Let’s go explore

He has to go to the city in the afternoon

But that’s OK; we’ll work it in

He has some ideas, places to go

How about Nick’s Cove. it’s always good

But we’ve been there several times, 

Yes, but just getting there is an adventure

Huge over-fertilized rocks

In fields with contented cows

And groups of poppies 

Sniff the air by eucalyptus trees 

Damp with morning fog

The climax of the drive is the ocean 

Maybe calm or maybe angry with crashing waves

Washing your eyes, the better to see

I know a place you’ve never been

The Pelican Inn, perfect! Drive along the ocean

Then through the windy road off Stinson Beach

And we’re almost to San Francisco.

And then again, 

What about that place you love by the Presidio

You know, onion soup or clam chowder. 

That’s Liverpool Lil’s, actually your favorite 

I’ll be hungry and want more than soup

But I’m getting into the spirit

Remember that place on Van Ness…

What’s it called?... Tommy’s Joint!

I haven’t been there in…

I count the decades on my fingers. 

Forty years!  

You could do your business after. 

By now, we are actually on the road

Which seems to be heading straight to SF 

Not the ocean and Nicks Cove

Nor cows in fields with big rocks and flowers

“I have to meet this guy when he awakes 

From working nights, sometime after 12

The car is parked on Ashberry, just off Haight

Old Hippie stomping grounds

Parked by a wooden fence, Wait

Without even trying, 

Feel a smile on my face

And feel the effects of someone else’s marijuana 

Two women giggle behind the fence

Their exhales drift in the car window 

To give me a little high.

I look about me –  tourists looking for hippies

Natives on the street are dressed 

For comfort and damp air

I would look strange if I got out of the car

Shoes without socks, shivering without a coat

A tourist, they would think, who doesn’t realize 

The chill of the bay even with the sun shining. 

He returns, business over, an exchange of money 

And a used huge printer in the back of the car. 

Again! 

So where are we going? 

We near one of the places

And debate if it is open

But we have passed it without a decision.

The car is driving itself, merging lanes

Up and down steep hills and suddenly

We are on the bridge. 

I venture a suggestion from my empty stomach

Tiburon?  We move along.

San Rafael? Pass exits too quickly

Remember that drive to Nicosia?

I always want to go back there. 

Too late; we are passing the dredging 

At the empty boat docks 

When we turn into Lakeville,

 I know where we are going. 

The Greek Place, Papas Tavern

Now has new ownership

No big surprise seeing the empty parking lot 

Not only closed, it looks like it never opened.  

The place is deserted.

We stop at a beer joint on the corner 

Lakeville Highway and Stagecoach Gulch,

Across the field with sheep and jumping lambs

And across Lakeville, the barn 

That has finally collapsed.

Traffic whizzes by on Lakeville 

While others wait on Stagecoach Gulch 

For their chance to turn without getting hit

Galvanized tubs filled with plants waving with breeze 

Accompanying bursts of laughter from the bar.

They don’t even sell a potato chip

Let alone a hamburger with fries

We’ve got lots of food at home.

Let’s buy some cold dark beer and fix dinner. 

Well, it was a Sunday adventure, of sorts.

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