Brrrr

Irish travel trailer campsite. Matt Holliday and his family lived just around the corner near some of the gypsies. I had loaned him my little antique copy of “The Merchant of Venice.”

Dreams. Can’t live with ’em; can’t live without ’em.

There’s always something up. Already this week it’s been the oddity of this much snow before Thanksgiving, a topic which we have already covered.

And the frigidity.

I hustled into the school, head almost turtle-like in Carrie’s old red Australian winter coat. Even with the sun out, it wasn’t pretty.

Inside, I washed and sanitized twelve tables for the arrival of the lunch hours. Then packed Styrofoam trays with Pretzel Boys, canned pears, and strudel. Puck joined this crew, sans Styrofoam plate, at eleven o’clock, tearing into his PBJ and digging into a Tupperware of pomegranate.

At twelve, the energy of the P.E. teacher flew into the kitchen.

“IT’S SNOWING!!!!” pumping the air with her fists.

Puck and I hit up Dierbergs on the way home. Puck pushed the cart for me, which is always a semi-dangerous idea. Careening around corners, narrowly missing pyramids of canned pumpkin. I temporarily distracted him with having him pick out onions, sweet potatoes, and apples for me.

Finished watching “Curly Top” for dinner. Puck always ends up liking Shirley Temple a little more than he thinks he will.

“She’s just a baby, Mom.”

But then he’s mesmerized, just like she managed to mesmerize most of America for the past eighty-plus years.