Goodbye, Hello
“THUNDER! Thunderstorms, Mama!”
I slapped my son a high five. This was, indeed, perfect news. I think, though, that I fell asleep again following this early morning interruption, because next thing I knew, a chatty teepee was sitting beside me, shrouded with a flashlight under the covers.
“I found a button, Mama. I think it could be treasure. Maybe a pirate left it here a long time ago. It says ‘YN’. What does that mean, Dad?”
“It’s probably ‘NY’ for New York, buddy.”
“Well… I think it’s ‘YN’, actually, Dad. Probably means…Who-Y-N [Hawai’ian]. Whatever it is, it sure is a big mystery… I’ll have to solve it, now.”
When I dragged myself out past an earache and the Bear’s third headache of the week – blast this weather – Puck was marching downstairs like the gestapo – “Has the baby cat been drinking milk from you, Mama Cat? Tell the TRUTH!” Then his button fell down the air grate.
The day had begun.
Realizing that I probably looked a little too “Star Wars” with my tunic, belt, boots, and the apple-strudel-donut-hair pinned to one side of my neck, and that my sisters would be embarrassed by this, I removed the belt and added my great-grandmother’s pearls and chains.
I remembered to pop thirty cents in the Bear’s hand before he took Puck into the library at twelve after nine. No matter how hard I try, no matter how many reminder notes I tack into my schedule book, the nickles haunt me.
On the gray ride out to church on mostly quiet streets, the Bear schooled Puck in decent behavior during a memorial service.
“I have to be extra super quiet because it’s a girl funeral,” Puck said solemnly.
Whatever kept him decent. He followed this one up by asking the Bear to define Catholicism. When he gets on a roll… We passed the PCUSA church next where I explained how I had played the violin there once, ate a jelly donut between services, and hunted up dried corn cobs in the cemetery during the second sermon.
“I was like nine,” I explained, when the Bear gave me an odd look.
It was a good crowd at Georgia Owen’s ten o’clock memorial service this morning, I have to admit – that 88 year-old adventuresome gentle spirit of camping trips in Mexico, skiing in Utah, and picking up adopted grandchildren in Ukraine. Judging from her children’s memories, guess I’m not the only mother to allow dodgeball in the house… I like to hear good things about good people. [And good things about bad people.] Sheaves of old black and white photographs tacked on boards [Puck covered the faded bikini beach shot with a hand of dismay] around tables stacked with upwards of thirty-five dozen homemade cookies, truffles (crafted by Carrie), and ginger ale punch, at Mom’s arrangement. It was a good time. I think Georgia would like to know that – I’m guessing she already does.
I observed the crowds with my three sisters – or “the quadruplets” as we’re sometimes considered to appear; I flatter myself – in another spidery corner of the foyer while the Bear chatted with everyone and his brother and Puck snagged way too many cookies. He wedged himself between Carrie and Rose.
“Hey, you two are wearing the same shoes, but they’re different colors!” Puck exclaimed, very proud of himself for this observation.
“Hey, you’re not supposed to say that,” Carrie grinned, tickling him away.
We split up at noon. Volleyball, Elvis, communion, obligations…
The Silverspoon kitchen was completely gutted and the “popcorn ceiling” had been scraped in the music room. Renovations were just around the corner. And Izzy was still asleep. [It was one o’clock. Meanwhile, Francis was on youth retreat elsewhere. These social teenage boys…]
Gloria emerged from the makeshift basement kitchen in purple rubber dish gloves where Puck had cajoled her into fixing macaroni and cheese, apparently, which he ate three bowls’ worth on the top rung of a utility ladder for lunch. I do not put him up to these stunts; I promise.
I shortly later checked out this “bunker kitchen” under fluorescent lights for myself, as Gloria calls it. It was sort of like walking into a bomb shelter, with a pan of sweet potato fries steaming on the stove and mugs of coffee on the table where Theodore and the Bear discussed various forms of politics and theology as usual. I kind of liked the whole look, actually. Wouldn’t mind my kitchen being in the basement either, I don’t think.
When Puck got tired of running up the ladder and jumping onto Izzy, Gloria lured him off to the stores after a high-pumped first-ever-British-win ten thousand meters, live, in London and an angry six-foot-ten Russian beach volleyballer named Constantine.
So I got my Olympics fix.
Weather report fix.
Cardinals report fix.
It’s nice watching a working television…
And we didn’t leave before Puck tried to cart away an empty cardboard box on his person. I think my family has some history of pack-rat-itis, maybe somewhere dating from the 1910’s, but I’m hoping this trend ends soon… There are only so many mini mountains of broken things no one else wants that I’m willing to host in the little green box we call my son’s bedroom.
Adieus to Theodore and Gloria followed – packing up to chase down Tropical Storm Ernesto in the Caribbean.
Crackers greeted us by running down a fly up the basement stairs, just around the time that OLeif realized he had left a third of a stick of smoked cheddar-Swiss on the coffee table in the basement last night…