Less Embarrassing
With our visiting reverend hauled in from seminary for the morning, we were basically guaranteed at least two bow-ties by the addition of Dr. Jimmy Agan.
As Francis walked behind Puck to his seat, Puck – busy putting thought to paper with squibbly letters – whispered loudly to him, “Francis! I have a big wrestling plan when we get back!”
And of course any sermon is enhanced by the cool gray rain-suggestive morning of a Sunday in mid-August, and the baby grinning and waving at Puck two rows in front of us until Puck whispered back, nodding, “We have to pray now!”
90 minutes later, the loudest kid in the church exited Sunday School with two paper bag hand puppets plastered in feathers and googly eyes.
Much googly eye.
Carrie had done it again, of course. A cold leek and potato soup with apple-cheddar turnovers hot from the oven. Homemade, naturally. Francis even popped himself two bowls of soup, which surprised everyone, I think. Our modest dinner included too much discussion over the separation of church and state, sparked by the temporary establishment of a voter’s registration table in the church foyer, which irked me a little. So when one of the kids labeled it a “voting booth”, Puck suggested that we should probably “not put a kissing booth in the sanctuary too”.
That ended that.
Puck watched Carrie organize her room, including renovations on the bunny tunnels and cages, which involved a few areas that were falling apart.
“Huh,” said Puck. “They just don’t make those cages like they used to.”
Then Stinkerbelle popped Carrie right in the ol’ kisser.
“Why do you have so much flax over here?” Rose squawked from the kitchen.
I think we’ve sort of forgotten how to be embarrassed by the big old green van anymore. So Mom suggested a ride out to flood plain country. Dried cornfields, old Lutheran churches, airstrips, two-lane roads thundering around forgotten cemeteries… We didn’t really “do” anything, per se. The Bear and I briefly contemplated the idea of how far down you actually own your land. Maybe until you hit magma. Or maybe exactly to the very center of the earth until you hit the other guy’s land who lives exactly on the opposite side from you. The Bear added in a few ideas of underground earthquake-proof houses and subterranean rocket train tunnels from the countryside into Busch Stadium… Then Dad went flying over the train tracks.
“Aaah!”
“Aw, Dad!”
“We’ve got blow-pops back here!”
Dad just laughed… “Did you survive that one?”
“Sure,” Carrie called back. “I just reopened the hole in the roof of my mouth. That’s all.”
[Yeah, that’s another story…]
Then we got laughed at by another car of teenage boys flying past us on 370. Well, the joke’s on you, boys, because chances are you’ll be hauling a mini van behind you ten years from now stuffed with soccer gear and car seats. And we all know just how embarrassing those laughs-on-wheels are.
Ok. A green bus is still worse.
But we picked up fixings for chili dogs on the way back.
The Bear and I rounded out the evening with “The Terminal”.
By the way, I was glad to see Skip playing this afternoon, even if it was just for a pinch hit. Sometimes he makes me think of peanut butter, or maybe jump ropes. Sometimes Jupiter. Anyone else remember Shoemaker-Levy 9? But mostly he reminds me of a combination of my dad and my oldest cousin, Brit. Sort of a soft-spoken, does the sacrificial thing by taking care of whatever needs to be done, Methodist – he could be Methodist. My dad used to be Methodist.