Last Pass
Puck arrived three minutes late to school that morning – in the wake of one-hour traffic – and received his very first tardy. I don’t think he cared.
As for myself, I ended up hanging around at the school office for two hours that morning instead of the usual one-hour. Sometimes even school administrations run late.
After dolling out medication, inhalers, and phone calls, I packed myself up (running late for Ditto).
About the only interesting thing I discovered during those next two hours in Kirkwood was the fact that one of the afternoon volunteers had a Cardinal possibly interested in buying her house. She didn’t know which one.
“I can’t believe she didn’t ask,” one of the younger girls scolded. “But, based on family situations and contract extensions, I’ve narrowed it down to three.”
I opened my mouth for about the third time all afternoon, “Which three?”
“I think it’s Carpenter. Because of his recent contract and he’s probably ready to start a family now.”
Sometimes, you find someone who follows the same clues.
It was Linnea-Irish’s very last ever volleyball game as a high school senior. So back at the Big House, Mom had vases of pink roses and other florals waiting on the kitchen for Linnea’s three coaches. It had been a difficult season.
By the time we arrived in Maryland Heights between five different vehicles, music was pounding from the gymnasium.
“It’s a BOOM PARTY!” Puck shouted, as we exited the car.
Inside, he found a fellow Minecraft buddy busy sculpting worlds. The two of them were louder than the entire gymnasium put together, yelling back and forth about diamond swords and zombies. Puck only occasionally paused to ask some question about the game. The game-game.
“ARE THEY TO 100 YET, GRANDMA?”
So, the last two matches of Linnea’s career ended in loss. However, she played well, maybe the best I had seen her all season. So that was some consolation. Dinner with the team, parents, and coaches probably was too.
We found our own dinner under fast-sinking-sun at Dairy Queen. Bacon cheeseburgers, fries, and root beer. No root beer for Puck. I know; so much better.
At home, while I chatted with Rose, and El Oso recovered from another humdinger headache, Crackers stared out into the blank night street with the fascination of watching a thriller. I don’t know what she sees out there.