Chapter Eighty-Seven
I guess it’s a sign of a good day when the Cardinals sign Adam Wainwright to a five-year contract extension. And when The Bear teaches Puck how to “shave” during a mid-morning break.
“Cheetos.”
The Bear wiggled his eyebrows up and down when I asked him if there was anything we could pick up for him while we were out. That, and supplies to make spring soup next week. Piles of green things – onions, parsley, spinach, asparagus… asparagus, potatoes [they weren’t green]… and stuff like that. Puck and I crossed the parking lot, hand in hand. I know he won’t hold on much longer. He’s finishing Kindergarten already, and still usually protests if I try to hold his hand.
“Mom… please…”
Besides, he was trying to get a grip on his binoculars this time anyway. The free pair we got from that car dealership on New Year’s Eve. He examined the streets as we drove, and the people inside the store, flocking near shelves of cookies iced in pastels and piles of sugar-soaked hams. Easter is not my favorite holiday… So we collected the articles to make soup, and hustled home.
I know I’m in trouble when the recipe indicates something to the effect of…
“Cook the asparagus until just tender. DO NOT OVERCOOK, or an eagle with sharp talons will tear off the roof of your house and carry you away and drop you off at the South Pole in an alligator colony.”
That’s the sort of monster I haggle with when it comes to recipes. I won’t cooperate. It won’t cooperate. It’s a losing battle.
Anyway, we got the green stuff, the Cheetos, and a three-hole punch. I don’t know how we avoided that particular purchase in the last nine years. Also, a ten-pile of paper folders in six colors. Of course it wasn’t until we loaded up the conveyor belt at the check-out with stacks of healthy things that I could be proud of, that I noticed the name of “the bad place” stamped boldly on the back of each cover. Rats.
In the warming afternoon we hit up the park where Puck met a few friends. A girl maybe two years his senior with a sparky pink shiny bow, if memory serves. It was only a few minutes later and they were in cahoots having “secret talks” away from her four year-old brother. And Puck had been invited to her birthday party after he duly impressed her with his knowledge of static electricity…
“I’m sorry. But metal just does that. It shocks you.”
“Oh. Is the slide metal?”
“No… But the bolts are metal. See?”
“Oh.”
“I get to stay up till seven.”
“Seven in the morning?”
“No. Seven at night.”
“Oh. Do you want to come to my birthday party?”
The Bear polished up his boots while Rutter’s Requiem played on classic99.com. Puck had a few parting thoughts for me before bed that evening.
“Smell my feet, Mom!” Giggle, giggle. “What do they smell like?”
“Vinegar.”
Giggle, giggle.
