On a day like this—muggy, dark, hushed, and threatening rain—during my childhood summer vacations in the Poconos, my family wouldn't sit around the cottage moping; we'd set out in the car, in search of gift shops selling cedar boxes and Minnetonka moccasins, and we'd buy summer stuff like fudge and caramel popcorn from the Penn Dutch company. (They used to have an Amish guy on the package and the tag line: "Hector Hinkle says Try Some!") Today, the urge was still there, so I dragged Spouse and Child on foot to the lakefront in Prospect Park.
The deep overcast seemed even more gloomy and mysterious along the lake's southern perimeter, whose neglected shoreline and overgrown groves seem to attract those who wish to be left alone. A few fisherpersons tested the waters, ignoring the mosquitoes; this fellow cast from the opposite shore. 
By an empty bench on the footpath, we found a compelling piece of litter: a freshly opened and discarded pregnancy test box. The test sticks were nowhere in sight; my hunch is that a concerned user ditched the bulky box, to smuggle the sticks home to the bathroom in a small purse or pocket. What news did this box's contents disclose—and was it welcome or not?
Just as we left the park, we witnessed another creative use for the Peristyle: impromptu yoga studio. (I'd already seen it turned into a dance floor.)
The fit and serious group in natural fibers and earth tones attracted some tattoo'd blonde onlookers, who tried some moves in batwing sleeves and jangling bracelets. Not a Minnetonka moccasin in sight, though.
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