Donuts, Games, & Wind

I heard the familiar soft pat-pat-pat footsteps of a young little gentleman upstairs somewhere before 6:30 that morning. It was only the fourth time I had been pulled from a groggy fog with the shrill ring of something nearby. Because I had camped out on the leather couch in the basement, I thought it was Dad’s business line at first. Maybe another time zone calling in. After the third set of calls, I realized it wasn’t calls at all, but Francis’ alarm. I finally yelled at him down the room to switch it off. Life at home never really changes. So when I not long later wrapped a quilt around my shoulders and began the ascent, this little loud young man in question had stationed himself on the couch with his aunt to take in his weekend dose of computer games [not Minecraft] until everyone else was awake enough for him to accompany Mom to the donut shop.

We really aren’t as wild with the sweets as you might think… Most of us anyway… Well. I’d say about 60% anyway. On a good day. In example, Carrie forced Linnea to wash down a glass of some thick milky-fruity drink for breakfast while they discussed the revision of Linnea’s bedroom. But I still got my chocolate long john.

Just one.

Francis had a swim meet that morning. He walked up the stairs in his swim shorts, or whatever he calls them, just to gross out the sisters. Who are, by now, used to it. The same kid who proudly displayed the new headlights for the van to all members of the family after he and Joe had sanded, scrubbed, and washed them to perfection.

“Francis wants Shelley to have eyes,” Joe explained.

Mom switched on some jazzy Christmas oldies before joining Dad. Dad ran and did sprints at the track, Mom walked three miles. They do keep fit.

Linnea’s cracked tooth had not yet been repaired, given a paranoia of the dentist on the 15 year-old’s part. An appointment had been made for Monday. Carrie stuck a thermometer in Linnea’s mouth also, between the three birthday parties of the weekend. A consult followed between five of us, as to whether Linnea actually had a fever or not. The conclusion was not entirely settled.

Carrie rubbed Puck’s cheeks together.

“These are cheek exercises,” she told him. “Do these every day and you will grow up to be a great man.”

“I don’t want to be great, Sun,” he replied soberly.

“What kind of man do you want to be when you grow up?”

“Important.”

“Ok. If you do this every day, you will be a very important man. Did you know that you used to almost break the cuteness law when you were little?”

“What?”

“We had to hide you from the cuteness police so they wouldn’t take you away because you were too cute.”

“What? What did you do?”

“We hid you.”

“Where did you hide me?”

“We hid you in a number of places. Mostly the dryer.”

Then Linnea decided to skip the party. Her fever was going up, and considering that we all might now be contaminated just in time for Christmas, it was probably a good idea.

Puck and I slid back home again after one o’clock. The sky was all puffed up with rows of white and gray caterpillars. It felt just like spring. I’m not sure what I think about spring in December. Sort of throws you off a little. But I opened the windows anyway, to the wind. Crackers sprawled herself over the floor in greeting, as usual. Puck just tucks her under one arm and totes her around like a handbag. She doesn’t seem to mind it.

I couldn’t help but take Puck to the park in the afternoon, where the light was at storybook luminance, and other young boys were available to play “spy”, chins cupped in hands hiding under picnic tables. [Puck did discard the “science goggles” to “protect his eyes from the wind” before assuming this role.]

Francis texted in; he had posted his best time in the 100 Free at 1:04 minutes, and then 27.56 seconds in the 50 Free, up in Hannibal.

Puck got a hair cut; I can never keep up with these boys. At least he isn’t afraid of scissors. He sat with a bowl of the red and green goldfish crackers listening to an “Adventure in Odyssey” while I clipped away.

And I boiled up some eggs to cut in half any sugar we had consumed from breakfast.

There’s probably nothing better than cuddling a tow-headed young man with rosy cheeks in his jams, taking in the baked plains of a turn of the century Kansas drought Hallmark special.