Chapter Seventy-Five
My dreams have been sketchy lately. Not the usual good stuff. But last night I got something closer in the vein of what I’m used to – hiding in an old attic, gifted a boxed set from Gloria of tiny chocolate Egyptian sarcophagi in sparkling gold, lapis, and bright shellac-red. That’s more like it.
I had to get Puck in the shower again. If this is any indication of how much he’s morphing into his techy-y dad…
“I can’t get in the shower yet, Mom. It’s going to take forever to load.”
Because I love parades so much, Mom agreed to take Puck and myself to Cottleville for the shindig. Let me be more clear though – I hate parades. I shouldn’t say that out loud, though. Puck isn’t allowed to say “hate”, “dumb”, or “stupid” yet. I tell him it’s because he’s not responsible enough to know how to use the words yet. Which is true. But they’re also way overused anyway. So to rephrase again – I don’t like parades. Fortunately for me, Puck does. So I get to sit for an hour on a cold sidewalk and hold my son back from being run over by mini cars doing 40 in a 25 and sweaty marching bands. I was guessing this wouldn’t be the case today, at least. The marching bands, at least. Linnea was disappointed she had to truck out to Illinois for another volleyball tournament. She would miss all the candy, necklaces, coasters, mini beach balls, and t-shirts flying through the air from the hands of eager parade-ers. The equivalent of a dollar store dumped upside-down on the historic streets. But Puck had already promised her 50 percent of the spoils…
“I will do my best to get us each a beach ball,” he had told her solemnly. “One for both of us.”
It was cold. One hour and nineteen minutes after Dad dropped us off in the Orange’s neighborhood, the parade reached our three feet of cement. Puck sat for awhile in his little red fold-up chair, until he decided to get up and stretch. He stamped both yellow boots repeatedly on the pavement…
“What are you doing, Puck?”
“Making my leg muscles strong to grab stuff!” he replied, with a look of intense concentration.
Mom had packed deli sandwiches, Cheez-Its [I had the provolone version], and fat pretzel sticks. After Puck inhaled these items before a ring of screaming police motorcycles, the distribution of wealth had begun. Sort of. It seems that when you sit at the end of the parade route, most of the goods have already been tossed out. But there was still some stuff. Mostly shiny necklaces. One guy ran over to hand Puck a green one…
“I would like two, please,” Puck said, business-like. “One for my aunt.”
About an hour later, the variety show kept coming, but we packed it up. Puck had his loot.
“My big toe is all frozen,” he announced, as we walked back to the car.
Yes, Mom and Dad had parked one of the cars in the next-door neighborhood at six-thirty that morning, just so we wouldn’t be trapped on the way back.
Carrie had been busy ordering Joe a suit. He needed one, and leave it to Carrie to find a great suit for a bargain.
“Our pickling lime better be here today,” Carrie announced from the couch.
Saturdays are still business days for her. Whether suits, pickling lime, or multi-million-dollar investors. It all gets done. Joe was pulling a twenty-one-hour shift at Vanbuskirk’s, in the middle of parade chaos. Francis was back from work and commissioned a deli sub from my own expertise craftsmanship. No one else can layer ham, turkey, provolone, Swiss, and mayo like I can, apparently. I let Snuggles lick the mayonnaise knife. That is a strange cat.
“This cabbage is getting in my way,” Francis muttered, rearranging a fat package of lettuce in the fridge.
I imagine to a Snicketts boy, they’re one in the same… I guess Americans are a little silly about St. Patrick’s Day. Even MLB sends their boys out in green jerseys for the spring games. At least they did last year. Mom already had the corned beefs cooking in crockpots. Carrie did something to the potatoes while Mom and Dad napped.
Linnea walked in from her tournament right before Rose stomped in the front door with the cats, an army sack of laundry, and her orange-and-black rolling luggage.
“Pre-cruise cuddles!” Carrie smooshed up next to her.
“Ack! No!”
Linnea was already stretched out asleep on the floor. Francis was leaving to meet Creole, Puff ‘O Lump, and Gaston for dinner and entertainment. There were some arguments on what to do for the next meal. Cecil Whittaker’s. Safe. And “The Quiet Man”, of course. We got through half of that before we had to leave, and Puck gave Rose a big hug, with the other aunts.