Ch. 245; Vol. 10

“Want some rice, Puck?” Gloria was envisioning a late Cuban breakfast.

“No…”

“Is that tooth still in your mouth?”

Puck was already starting to hide.

“Come here, big boy. Let me knock it out for you.”

Then she stuffed him with apples and videos of six year-olds playing cello, watching Izzy use an X-Acto knife at the counter, who suggested Puck learn the oboe or the accordion.

That’s what happens at Nana’s house.

Also, Legos. Because Lego kids never grow up, the twenty year-old and the six year-old on the ombre rug clinked through boxes of plastic pieces while Theodore and Bær ran tracks and shelves in Puck’s room, walked out the door with a set of tools while I chuckled over two twenty-five year-olds attempting to steal Wrigley Field’s wall ivy. Puck invented his own Lego stories…

“CACTUS ROCKET!! CACTUS ROCKET!! CACTUS ROCKET!!” Run around run around run around… “The precious emerald. Escapes! From his owner… But then it comes back!… And then it escapes again every further this time!”

Then Yadi injured his wrist in the middle of a game in a Cincinnati-Cards loss. [Sorry, folks. I try to refrain.] I could guess how my day was going. I could only hope for a Pittsburgh loss.

“Love your enemies, Mom,” Puck reminded me over a plate of panini, green grapes, and Sun Chips between being loud and being loud. “I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM!! I have to go to the bathroom! I have to go to the bathroom all the way!”

Florissant.

Around three o’clock.

Uncle Bobs was back in from Sydney, Aunt Day. “Yuh don’t have any more chocolate doonuhts for me, do yuh?” he asked Grandma Combs, hailing earlier Vegemite schemes.

We walked to the school yard: Bær [with his murder mystery; yes, my husband], Rose [until it got too hot], Linnea, Puck [roll of red-blue-green-yellow play dough from Grandma], and myself. The same path Mom and Uncle Mo first walked nearly fifty years ago now. You wouldn’t know it.

I took a seat in the driveway, cup of water, with Carrie, Lucia, and Linnea.

“I’m setting you up on a blind date, Lucia.”

“No! I refuse!”

“He’ll be wearing plaid shorts…”

“EE-ee-eew!”

“White tennis shoes. With ankle socks.”

“Oh no!”

“A button-up shirt, visor…”

“Nooo!”

“Military hair cut. And one ear will be pierced. A fake diamond stud from Wal-Mart.”

“EEEEEW! I’ll set you up on a blind date.”

“Describe that, please.” I had to hear this.

“He’ll come to your door in camo… Head to toe.”

“Good. Then I won’t be able to see him.”

“Don’t try to be smart, Snicketts. And he’ll have a rifle… And… he’ll take you hunting and shoot an animal and… and he’ll say… ‘Go smoke this.’ Your perfect date.”

Inside, Rose was enjoying hearing about the church from Uncle Bobs. The conversation then turned to olives. Joe lounged next to Jaya on the couch with a thick old book, mentioning something about wanting make-up cloths for his birthday.

“Oh, Collette!” Lucia waved an olive at me over pans of brats and burgers coming through the patio door.

“No thank you.”

Childhood flashbacks: black ball bobbing in my Coca-Cola.

Rose waggled a foot at Linnea. “You touched my toe.”

Linnea cringed in her seat. “Why did you put you toe there?”

“Why did you put your arm on my toe?”

Took a break outside with peanut butter fudge brownie. Dad pointed out the house of his old coach down the street: Elementary, Middle, and High.

This is St. Louis: Big-City-Little-City. I love it.

Labor Days are just like Memorial Days. Always the same thing. And always the same thing is kind of nice.