Diner on the River

Puck’s arms stretched out for the benediction. In one paw was a little stuffed bluejay – former relic of Rose’s childhood – and in the other, a hand-sized arrow-head-shaped rock he found in the street. Although we weren’t convinced it was a rock. Too light.

“Might be a petrified dinosaur tooth,” Rose teased him before the service.

Whatever it was, Puck was convinced it was either a Native American war implement. Or a slice of pizza.

El Oso and Linnea-Irish returned from the youth weekend at Lake Williamson, Illinois. The accommodations had improved from heat-less cabins to hotel rooms.

While Mom and Dad napped, Carrie-Bri, Rose, and I indulged in a little shameful “Kath & Kim,” ridiculous Australian-inspired TV show from awhile back.

Washington, Missouri.

Our family visits small towns on a regular basis, I guess. Except that this town didn’t feel much like a small town anymore. Right on the river. Just before dusk, we found a restaurant in one of the old 1800’s brick shops where a few of our tribe had dined before: Cowan’s Restaurant: Home of the Mile High Pie.

We didn’t actually try the pie. Because we were too stuffed. As the plates were being served, two platters of small battered and fried round things were placed in front of Rose.

“What … is that?” El Oso asked.

Rose looked up proudly. “I like polka dots.”

As Puck shoveled through a bowl of macaroni and cheese with accompanying fries (Linnea ordered the same), and Francis polished off a ribeye, Puck – and probably Dad – began to grow steak-envy.

“Mom?”

“Yes, Puck?”

“Can I have steak for dessert?”

Oh, he was serious of course. But it wasn’t happening. That’s something he can look forward to enjoying when his stomach is twice its current size. But I probably wouldn’t advise it.

On the drive back, Rose entertained the masses (at least the back seats) with selections of music from her iPhone, including “Old Man River” after we crossed the river.

Twinkling white and yellow lights of Washington on the other side of the bridge. Made me think of a thousand years ago: other lights – campfires – under the last pale gray light in the west.