Happy Seven, Baby
My big little guy was seven. Seven on a Good Friday where the entire city had apparently poured outside to join us in our route through the city for good times.
The Arch is quickly becoming tradition for Puck. He had a plan in his head, and this was the first stop. A cool walk through the green-grass ally to our favorite monument. That sight never grows old. Saltwater taffy from the old mercantile, in various flavors, and a “Jacob’s Ladder” for Puck, who thought it a pretty clever toy.
On the drive past Busch Stadium, Mom called with happy birthday wishes for our little man.
But Forest Park was just not going to work. Clearly every St. Louisan had called relatives from out of state to join them at the Zoo for the season premiere of smelly animals and their equally stinky floral counterparts in the guise of crabapple blossoms. Puck was a little upset that all parking was full and we had to move on:
“But it’s a tradition, Dad. It’s a tradition.”
Turns out Faust Park could be a welcome tradition too. Puck quickly adjusted to picnicking on a blanket beside the silent green-grass amphitheater on Sicilians and giant chocolate chip cookie, with the tealight that wouldn’t light. We pulled out the bow and arrows for some practice shots, just down the slope from the old Spanish house, before joining the mass of humanity on the playground. That’s when Francis called him from Florida to wish more happy birthday.
Back home, Anna and Eddie were 100% ready to dig around in the tub of water marbles, fight over who could hold Crackers, and do everything possible to avoid going home on time. Puck acted as mediator for any potential arguments, and there were no busted eyeglasses. They’re good kids. In the middle of this mayhem, Dad placed his happy birthday call to Puck, who continued to mediate while introducing his buddies to Dad over the phone.
For the night, we girls (Irish taking Rose’s spot who bailed on us for Thunderbird, Annamaria, and Hermann) caught a frustrating game squished on the screen of my laptop from the red couch, finishing up slices of Puck’s birthday cookie, potato chips, and a case of Fitz’s that Carrie lugged over.
El Oso and Ricky serenaded us from the basement. A little Spanish guitar floating up through the vents.