Ch. 237; Vol. 10
You could just see it in the eyes – Puck – hungry for weighted objects. How did I know this? Maybe it was hunting out ink pens in chair pockets to swing around on a nylon cord.
“You want something else?” I decided to brave my personal property before the church’s.
“Yeah! How about that Oreo?”
I’m not sure how a fossilized crinoid safety-pinned to my book bag qualifies as an Oreo…
“How about… this?”
Valet key to the old red Civic. R.I.P. Sometimes, I’m sentimental.
Big grin. He lassoed that sucker to spin around the sanctuary for a few turns while the “praise team” rehearsed “Kwake Yesu Nasimama” [the Ryes were visiting].
“The knot’s slipping, Mom.”
“Here. Let me show you the square knot.”
It didn’t work. I guess the trustiest of Boy Scout not-so-secrets doesn’t apply to purple nylon cord.
“Let’s just tie it in a circle knot,” Puck nodded his head many times like he was smoothing over any bruised feelings.
The rodeo paused when the Rye family walked in the door with a hand-carved animal puzzle from “Epeopia” for Puck, which he basically strapped to himself for the rest of the morning. After escorting his young friends around the building where Hesed finally found his dad again…
“There you are, my father!”
Did he just say that? The tiny three year-old in banana yellow Mickey Mouse crocs?
So after Judah’s sermon, I don’t really remember anything else. Two Rye boys and a Silverspoon circus-ing with all the other small fry in the foyer where our baker-extraordinaire was busy pumping up balloon animals. Mostaccioli-meatballs-potato-casserole-salad-chocolate-cupcakes. Much children. Much children. I guess it helps that Bær also worked the balloon corner for awhile, turning out tulips, teddy bears, and butterflies for handfuls of children filled with admiration for his skills in colored latex.
Grandma Snicketts, yellow-socked, sitting in a big soft chair by the Cards game with the other grannies and grandpas. Tired. Cold. But not too much to fail appreciating another Uncle Balthasar story: segway crash at the post office. That’s what you get for still tinkering with gadgets when you’re 57. The Snicketts brothers never really grew up. I think he might have gone over the handlebars.
“I heard of this really good pizza place in South County…” Carrie suggesting dinner. Unusual.
Rose turned us down: something about “Silence of the Lambs” with Thunderbird and Donna-Noble. Joe was already hanging out with Jaya: all-afternoon piano at Lindenwood. Francis: blowing up more junk someplace.
A shack established 1950. Cat-print cloth in the window. Weren’t… too sure… anyone was home. Dad skeptically inched the car behind the building. Carrie’s twenty-dollar grin.
“Well, it has good reviews,” I offered, as we approached the door.
“It’s a SHACK, MOM!” Puck yelled back up to me as we entered the basement.
“Ooh! Reminds me of a speak-easy!” Mom exclaimed, delighted, as the sisters shared a laugh.
A bomb shelter of tables, red-and-white-checkered cloths, salt and pepper shakers, cool and quiet. Four good St. Louis style pizzas.
As for the evening, with half the kids still tied up with social activities, Mom decided to spend a few hours with Grandma Combs in Florissant while Carrie joined Kitts for a henna party – or something – and while I tore into a couple of aerated Hershey’s chocolate bars [courtesy: Bær] over another episode of “Goddess of Fire” [the Koreans just can’t come up with good titles], Linnea-Irish called me up about $7.25 tickets for a group of friends to the ballgame Monday night.
