Second Hand Saturdays
Lorraine was a grandma with a raspy laugh, a Buick full of tissues, and zero patience for nonsense—or no-smoking signs. In the mid-80s, she’d take her grandkids to Denny’s every Saturday, plop them in the smoking section, light up a Marlboro, and hand them a laminated menu like it was a peace treaty. Even the asthmatic ones knew the drill: breathe through your sleeve and don’t tell your parents. She’d say, “It’s not the smoke, it’s the memories,” and go back to her crossword puzzle while puffing like a chimney. This painting freezes one of those mornings in time—nostalgic, absurd, and soaked in secondhand charm.
Lorraine was a grandma with a raspy laugh, a Buick full of tissues, and zero patience for nonsense—or no-smoking signs. In the mid-80s, she’d take her grandkids to Denny’s every Saturday, plop them in the smoking section, light up a Marlboro, and hand them a laminated menu like it was a peace treaty. Even the asthmatic ones knew the drill: breathe through your sleeve and don’t tell your parents. She’d say, “It’s not the smoke, it’s the memories,” and go back to her crossword puzzle while puffing like a chimney. This painting freezes one of those mornings in time—nostalgic, absurd, and soaked in secondhand charm.
Lorraine was a grandma with a raspy laugh, a Buick full of tissues, and zero patience for nonsense—or no-smoking signs. In the mid-80s, she’d take her grandkids to Denny’s every Saturday, plop them in the smoking section, light up a Marlboro, and hand them a laminated menu like it was a peace treaty. Even the asthmatic ones knew the drill: breathe through your sleeve and don’t tell your parents. She’d say, “It’s not the smoke, it’s the memories,” and go back to her crossword puzzle while puffing like a chimney. This painting freezes one of those mornings in time—nostalgic, absurd, and soaked in secondhand charm.