Ch. 252; Vol. 10
Rubbery squeaks in the other room. Bær handed a tall green giraffe balloon to Puck before he walked out the door. Nice way to start the day; until Crackers unravelled it. Some cat.
Bær walked down to the black truck, Puck waving him off still in his jams, talking excitedly to him earlier about a clothes shoot to the basement, “I know what we can do, Dad! We can use a flat metal board and then SHOOT IT DOWNSTAIRS! Then pull a SYSTEM PULLEY LINE!”
All figured out.
Blink.
Puck was wrapping up morning lessons, half of his brain still somewhere else, creating. “Let’s make our own apple soda, Mom!”
“Maybe we can figure out how to do that sometime…”
“We have APPLE JUICE, and… BAKING SODA!”
Again, figured.
It was now the second time in two weeks it had come through the wash: Bær was most definitely carrying a pocket handkerchief. I knew it was coming. The desire for suspenders, marble collections, and straw hats was just too irresistible for the grandpa hidden inside my husband since he was twelve.
He looks forward to sixty.
“Puck, put your magazines away.”
“But I’m reading them for Literature, Mom.”
Two teeth stuck out under his top lip.
He decided before lunch that he would build himself a parachute – and one for Donkey – by the end of the day.
All signs of Sunday morning storms were long gone when Puck and I walked out to the car.
Cotton socks for myself – sheep, Native American, owls, and cats with hearts [Puck insisted] – at Target, and Monday groceries.
As we walked into the store that shall not be named, I had Puck hold my hand on the side furthest from parked cars.
“Just in case we almost get run over like last time. We were almost some dead meat. Well. You probably would have been ok at least.”
“But what if you were run over and I was left all alone?” Puck had to know. “So what? Would I just live here and beg for food?”
My son.
Sure enough, walking back out with a heavy cart, another car lurched backwards without looking. This time we anticipated this indiscretion.
Before dinner, I explained the Grand Canyon to Puck, at his request. “A big gash in the earth. It’s beautiful.”
“So that grown men cry?”
“Yes… How did you know that?”
“You told me a long time ago.”
“Did I…” Sometimes a mother forgets.
The fascination with parachutes continued after dinner: Hebrew National. The old rag and “plastic string” came out again.
“Mom, you’re making my parachute. I’m making Donkey’s. I’m good at this stuff.”
We did our best.
Puck threw open the front door – cicadas and evening heat. “I’m going to go test it now, Mom.”
“Maybe you should wait for Dad.”
“But I have to test it first, Mom, so if it’s a big blow-up, we can fix it.”
He climbed that tree and dropped that Donkey.
Shoonk.
Thunk.
Door tossed aside.
“All that all dumb work! All that planning…”
I think he was ok.
Especially when Bær walked through the door with a shiny tin of BBs from work. What those boys do all day…
