Ch. 195; Vol. 10
Somewhere between Puck loudly whispering answers to Pastor De Silva’s rhetorical sermon questions and The Bear lightly sketching dinosaurs, turtles, and radios in Sunday School during a recorded lecture from a pastor with cerebral palsy in Tennessee…
I processed the weekend.
Dad squashed another brown recluse inches from Puck’s fingers at lunch: deli sandwiches, Sun Chips, strawberries…
“Is that one of my secret stash chocolate bars?” Mom asked me as I tossed a Hershey’s wrapper…
“No. Daisy-Jean gave it to me. But now I know you have a secret chocolate stash…”
What do I mean? Nothing stays secret around here for more than ten seconds.
Uncle Balthasar, Aunt Tuuli, and Aunt Corliss walked in the door, 12:30. After a thorough conversation-splash of colonoscopies, kidney stones, dead celebrities, fancy toilets, and traffic from triathlons…
“We’re gonna get you up soon doing laps around the house, Mom,” said Uncle Balthasar.
Carrie was probably somewhere on the road back from someplace in sunflower-studded treeless-hills Nebraska. A few of the same fat gold blooms sat in a bowl on the coffee table, a gift from Uncle Clarence and Aunt Galena in Virginia.
Rose had already hit Salt Lake, one layover to California. That was a novel in itself…
Joe was gone early with Jaya: post-France current-jet-lag breakfast, church, and who knew what else.
Linnea [M&M pants, bunny-chewed St. Louis Regional Bicycle Federation t-shirt, sunburned cheeks, ukulele] thumbed through her iPod/sort-of-iPhone hunting music until Cherry called about the Oklahoma mission trip. Flat on her back, knees up, on the kitchen counter.
Francis called The Bear… should he or should he not leave the Salthouse’s key in their mailbox… walked in with a bag of donuts. Donuts. Picked up a lighter to set off more sparkler bombs in the backyard. In his church clothes of course, holding fingers in his ears against the explosion…
“Wow, that’s bright,” my eyes were a little scarred.
“I know,” Francis ogled. “Isn’t it beautiful?”
My first accomplishment of the afternoon was quarter-convincing him to quit college and hire himself out to a local fireworks display company.
Well.
The posse returned from down the road. 99 year-old “Lois” introduced herself and displayed her giraffe collection during the tour.
“We told them we probably wouldn’t sign you up for the water volleyball, Mom,” Uncle Balthasar informed her.
Three-thirty and the company had dispersed after legal documents, contract papers, and shampooing Grandma’s hair.
Linnea-Irish walked to Gretyl’s house.
Rose landed in San Diego, sent a desert view snapshot from her hotel room. Something about being parked illegally…
The old neighbor – back to prep the house for another rental – asked Dad and The Bear to help move a dresser after pizza was sliced. Between both their bad backs, they made half a good back.
Dad and Francis had lightly talked planes in the kitchen before Francis left to meet a pal for more explosions, backpack stuffed with sparklers. Dad was still waiting for Carrie-Bri and Francis to bolt together the plane/planes waiting in the garage…
“By the way, Dad, are you going to buy us parachutes?”
“No. Build it right the first time.”
You can’t make this life up.
