Ch. 186; Vol. 10

The Park. 10:00. That had been the original plan for Idelwild Redcoat, her three girls, Paige Popp, her two kids, Carrie-Bri, Puck, and myself. But…

Two Year-Old Redcoat was wiped out from late-night explosions, and napping at home.

Paige Popp’s son had required an emergency weekend doctor’s appointment.

And Carrie…

“There was an accident on the road. A guy jack-knifed his trailer. He’s hurt. I’m staying with him until the police get here.”

So 50% made it. Including Middle Sister Redcoat. Those kids would play a life away. Picnics in the shade: carrots, clementines, raisins, peanuts. Bottles of water poured on the rubber playground padding, dipping their heads in the puddles. Hunting long reeds in the weeds and forest sprawl, to play tag. The fun never ends.

 

The streets were strewn with firecracker rubbish. One mom out with a dust bin and broom already; her boys probably still sleeping from the lateness of the night.

The Bear was back from inspection and renewing plates on the bike; a “finally”.

Secret Snicketts Knock at the front door: Carrie, dropping off Dutch black licorice coins for The Bear in thanks for resizing photos for business purposes. On her way with the girls to drop off Cherry at the halfway point.

Swat some fruit flies. Three.

Glow sticks left over from Thursday night.

Two inches of memory foam from Amazon for the king size. We’ll get this whole sleeping-right-again thing figured out.

 

Shopping with my boys. It’s always better than going myself. I feel less conspicuous somehow. Why it’s necessary to not feel conspicuous while walking the aisles of Target, I don’t know. And groceries: dry erase markers, kitty litter, yogurt, couscous, chicken, fries, naan, bananas, honey dew, cilantro, avocados, lime, strawberries, cucumber, plums…

 

Chick-Fil-A.

Ghostwriter.

We get on these kicks.

“I’m full of chicken nuggets, Dad.”

“Are you full of fries?”

“I’m full of all food… Want to play Minecraft?”

“Can’t.”

“Why not, Dad?”

“I’m full of Minecraft.”

But they did anyway, of course. After Puck was hot-scrub-showered in Star Wars Angry Birds jams.

 

The Bear left for the evening. Brad Pitt and zombies with friends from work, including Chet Danger, Red Strike, and Joe. I will never be able to imagine Brad Pitt outside of 1940’s Himalayas with a bad Austrian accent. I hear he’s almost 50, has sort of long hair, and actually participates in films that aren’t 73% wind-blowing-in-desolate-mountains. But I like to keep my dreams.

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Jamie Larson
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