Happy 35
Mom and Dad: 35. They’ve done pretty well for themselves.
“Now let’s see if you last another 35,” Francis joked after church.
A luncheon of sub sandwiches, meatballs, chocolate cake, and cold lemonade followed. We dawdled around afterwards waiting for the open house to begin a few miles down the road.
While we waited, I heard Puck chatting with his friends. They were discussing the newly released church directory, reading through the names on the thin sky blue booklet.
“Snicketts Rose? Why is her name in there like that? Her name isn’t Snicketts Rose.”
“Aw, they just put the last name first,” one of the boys explained.
This inspired Puck to brag on her a little bit. “My aunt knows all the secrets of the governor.” I’m not sure they were so impressed at first, so he tried again. “MY AUNT KNOWS ALL THE SECRETS OF THE GOVERNOR!”
At two o’clock we joined the other congregants in touring an aging Baptist facility in St. Charles, a property the church may purchase in the near future, given that the current building is beginning to bust at the seams.
Puck grabbed a cookie from the refreshments table as he ran off with his buddies to check out the air hockey table in the basement. Oxbear and Francis explored the property in the back of the church, some green space backed up to a creek that I’m not sure won’t flood after the rainy season, which in St. Louis could be just about any time.
Back at the Big House, Carrie-Bri was working at the bunny house, Joe and Jaya were on their way back from Nebraska, and Dad was already preparing to order pizza.
I sat on the porch for a little while to enjoy the heating-up afternoon; felt good.
“Why would you want to be out there?” Dad asked. “It’s way too hot.”
“It’s actually not too bad.”
“You should always agree with Grandpa, Mom,” Puck told me. “Grandpa’s always right.”
A little while later, Puck and Francis shot off firecrackers in celebration.
“HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!” Puck shouted for the finale.
I switched on another annoying game from Los Angeles that evening, although not the same late-start as the previous three nights. If I hear one more thing about that stupid Clayton Kershaw, I may just go take out a broadcasting booth somewhere.
And Chicago.
Just for the heck of it.