Lazy Lazy
El Oso was already on the road, playing viola at Memorial Presbyterian for their 150th anniversary Sunday morning service. So Puck and I lingered over breakfast, Puck mostly distracted by the creatures hopping around the patio, brown bunny included.
“Aw, look, Mom. You can see his little lips chewing.”
Our own service twenty minutes down the highway included Puck sitting next to a basket of varied writing utensils in dozens of colors. He’s like his dad. Art makes him listen better somehow. Halfway through a one-eyed purple monster, he heard Pastor Marshall discussing an unconventional view of the widow’s mite in connection with the prosperity gospel. And when the pastor offered a modern-day example of a church, who, in exchange for faith money, gifted givers with silver bookmarks and lucite paperweights, apparently Puck thought this was a good deal.
“Let’s do it! Let’s do it!” he whispered loudly to me.
Packrat.
At least he understood the basic sequence of events with the widow and her mites.
“She went from one, to zero!” he whispered again.
Sort of.
The monthly church lunch ended quickly with paper plates of pasta, sandwiches, fruit, and a variety of cookies. Rose and Ricky talked poisonous jellyfish at one end, while I heard Dad and Pastor Marshall discussing the drawbacks of sleep number beds at the other.
For about two hours, everyone sat together at the Big House, mostly lolling around just because. Dad half-snoring on the couch to his music collection playing from the television, and a few Andy Williams clips here and there. Joe and Jaya leaving early for Jaya to play piano at a nearby nursing home. Ricky briefly arrived to return the borrowed cello; I guess he decided to throw all his eggs in one basket with the piano. Some badminton and ladder golf in the backyard – El Oso was surprisingly good for his second try – Tootsie pops from the pantry, etc. Lazy muggy Sunday afternoon.
After a dinner of many leftover brats and dogs from the Fourth, and some episodes of “Arthur” basically for Francis and Puck, Dad carted us all over to Culver’s in Goldilocks, pulling up beside another 15-passenger that literally had “Joy” written on its side. We were no longer the only joy bus in the city. Cringe. And with Culver’s being completely out of cookie dough, we made do with peanut butter cups.