Ch. 266; Vol. 10

“Yeah, if Francis had a farm, he’d just grow potatoes. For French fries.”

“Or I’d just plant French Fries… ‘Why aren’t they growing?’”

“’Grow, my pretty ones!’”

“He’d have a burger farm and give tours.”

“Yeah, he’d plant the sesame seeds from burger buns.”

“’Here’s the Cheez-It field.’”

“’Mostly FDA approved.’”

That was Sunday afternoon on the drive back from Marthasville. Honestly, anything with a ‘ville’… Why?

It’s still a funny feeling waking up the morning after someone has died, like you almost forgot it happened. I remember something similar after Grandpa Snicketts and Grandpa Combs passed.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Puck.”

“Would you say if I’m good or not? While I’m parking?”

Bright Eyes watched me carefully while he backed the plastic trike slowly up against the kitchen cabinet. He’s outgrown that toy by about three years, but he has trouble letting things go.

He changed out of his jams, holding a small silver princess wand – who knows – and tapped it my direction..

“Wong! Now you’re a frog.” Toothless grin. “Ribbit. Ribbit.”

He had just spent about ten minutes having me read all the beer bottle caps from his collection, harvested from the coffee shop earlier this summer, which he still calls sodas. Actually, I think he thinks beers are just sodas anyway.

Puck handed me the last chicory plucked from the edge of the park, tearing up and down the hill on his plastic trike. No shame.

When we returned from shopping with barely enough time to finish dinner before departure, Puck very seriously began pooling items for Linnea’s 16th birthday. He walked out of my room with a quilted vest I used for painting a few times…

“Will this fit Lila?”

“Um… sure?”

He looked at it solemnly. “Yeah, it’ll fit. I’ll wrap it up.”

Exaggerated tearing of scotch tape in the living room.

“So…”

“I’m packing up Lila’s presents. That’s why I have to prepare, or else.”

More tape ripping.

“So what are you giving her?”

Sigh. “Just a coat and a little beeeead…”

It was about time to go. Puck walked through the house to “The Final Countdown”. He appeared perturbed.

“Puck?”

“I’m just looking tough. For the fun of it.”

We continued to listen to another R.C. Sproul lecture on the drive out, Puck staring out the window in contemplation, occasionally asking for the definition of a word. His father’s son.

He spent an hour with Theodore and Gloria, hunting acorns and pebbles collected in a cigar box.

It wasn’t exactly what I had expected to do on a Monday night late in September, but it had to happen: meeting with the Session to announce our departure after September 29. [When it rains, it pours.] Apparently they wanted Bær to hang around for “Bluegrass Sunday”, which has become a tradition now, I suppose.

It was a breeze. No hard feelings. Although M&M warned Mr. Giraffes – my 6th grade Sunday School teacher from Kirk of the Hills – to behave, when he threatened not to let us leave. I think it might have helped that we’re staying around for Wednesday nights.

“And now you get to hug all of us!” M&M concluded, when the laying on of hands and prayer had concluded.

I followed the boys home behind the truck, Puck waving a chubby hand out the window to me.

Puck changed into his jams, singing when he thought I couldn’t hear…

“The good ole boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye!”

Maybe enough Oldies for awhile…