Let's Look at Lightbulbs

A Dream Account

I was late to catch a flight. So was The Bear, Puck, Mom, and Dad. Mostly because we were detained at security for failing to provide photo copies of the scissors used to clip our identification documents.

Then there was something about making plans to create worlds on frisbee tops – subtle hills – with sand and spongey foliage supplies from hobby shops. But that might have been more a lucid thought sometime close to when Puck walked past our room and woke me up at 4:15AM.

Back in the Land of the Living

“Dad!”

The early shadow of our son crossed the doorway.

“Yes, bud?”

“I saw a bunch of men! And they were playing games! And they were naked!”

“No, no, no…!” I groaned myself awake, trying to shut down that fiasco as quickly as possible. “Those were ancient Greek drawings. And they were only naked because that’s how they competed in the games back then…”

Sometimes cultural traditions aren’t explainable to five year-olds when they browse history texts unsupervised.
“I made a snowball, Mom! And I put it in the freezer! And it will stay in the freezer forever hooray!”

I had to check out this specimen. When Puck opened the freezer door I realized, with remorse, that I had failed my son. His version of a snowball was apparently a pile of frozen oak leaves.

In other news, Paige Popp was going to give it another go, as they say. She carried in the little baby girl, just one month old. And her grinning one year-old with googly-eyed moose shirt, moose knit hat and gloves, walked quietly into the living room. Minutes later, he silently built block towers with Puck until Carrie handed them each a Christmas present – from “Sasquatch Santa” – to unwrap. [This is what happens when your son finds out the real Santa is already dead.] Puck got the pop-gun, and his little buddy – a meowing plush kitten that walked. Carrie even brought mac ‘n cheese, green grapes, and chocolate brownies to share for lunch. Just under two hours later, and they had to go. But Puck had found another friend.

We had an appointment back at the house for the evening. Carrie drove us back. Dad hopped a flight back from Pennsylvania and had just gotten back to finish out the rest of the day from home. Linnea was at another endless volleyball session. Joe drove back from Vanbuskirk’s a few hours later. And when Francis got back from teaching some kids their weekly swimming lesson, Grandma Combs had arrived to contribute to my belated birthday party, and to read “Harold and the Purple Crayon” to Puck while Carrie cut me some bangs. Rose and The Bear were the final units to complete the gathering.

While we waited on everyone, Grandma thought she’d teach Mom some relaxing yoga moves in the living room. Mom found a restful pose. Grandma cued Carrie for a bit of ambient music. As rehearsed, the tranquility of… the “Beer Barrel Polka” serenaded Mom into a laugh.

Lasagna, cheese-stuffed breadsticks, and salad were waiting on the table.

“Costco lasagna.”

“Hmm,” said Joe. “I can taste the savings.”

“Hmpf,” Grandma snorted. “From the boy who told me, when he gets a girl, he’s never going to buy her a ring from Jared’s or Kay Jewelers.”

“Yeah, he’s going to get one from the bubble gum machine.”

“Am not,” Joe scoffed. “I’m going to forge mine.”

As the dinner dishes were cleared, Grandma proudly displayed her most recent doctor’s note after receiving a perfect bill of health on all counts from her recent doctor’s appointment [we chalked up the white blood cell count holding steady for the first time in 25 years to no longer watching the five o’clock news]. The note read that Grandma, should she wear adequate padding and safety equipment, and should she wish to do so, had been given full doctoral consent to once again ride a bike. Puck modeled football shoulder pads in demonstration.

“You should frame that, Grandma.”

Then the three boxes of maple bacon donuts were brought out to the table, courtesy of Grandma Combs. Mom planted Grandma’s spinning flower candle musical centerpiece in one of the experimental pastries for me, which exploded as soon as Carrie lit it, accompanied by a round of singing that didn’t match the tune on the donut.

We needed a Christmas lights drive. Only Grandma couldn’t join us this time. Everyone else piled in the old green as Joe made plans to meet with Tor later in the evening.

“Hemorrhoids can’t keep you from flying!” Rose squawked as we entered Main Street in Old St. Charles.

[Sometimes…]

A packed thoroughfare of 19th century brick, cobble streets, shops, restaurants, and everything that fits the bill of 150 years ago. Thick with strung lights. Everything is gold and swathed in fir. So many people walking the cold streets warming themselves by an occasional pocket fire for chestnuts or hot cider.

“Puck! Look!” Carrie directed his gaze. “It’s Sasquatch Santa!”

“Where?! Sun! I missed it!”

“It’s ok. We’ll see him again later.”

“Hey, Dad!” Joe cut in before a Wally-related phone call. “Could you let Francis and I hang our heads out the window and sing carols?”

“No.”

“Shut up!” Rose yelled to everyone. “So we can look at light bulbs!”

“Oh, Martin, drive slowly so I can look in all the windows,” Mom urged as we later passed into the residential homes of another older era.

“Mom! That’s so creepy!”

Dad might have slowed down. His occasional jiving to the Christmas music on the radio could have helped the situation.

After awhile we bridged over to New Town as Carrie and Joe slapped aeronautical language back and forth to each other.

“Can we stop bragging about planes now?” Rose asked.

“Hey, you brag about work all the time,” Joe retorted.

“I’ll poke your eyes out,” came Rose’s predictable reply.

“I got called ‘bro’ so many times today at work,” said Joe as we neared the lights of New Town.

“That sounds like Oliver,” said Rose.

“You know he has gages now?”

“Those things are so gross.”

“Well, they’re fake gages.”

“He should put St. Bernard barrels in them,” Rose mused. “I’d keep my emergency contact info in them if I had some.”

We hit the highway back home.

“By the way, our flight instructor yells at us sometimes, kind of like you, Dad,” Carrie said. “’What are you doing?! What are you doing?! Bring the nose down!! Bring the nose down!!! BEEP!!!!”

“And he actually says beep,” added Rose.

“No, that’s just the stall horn.”

And no drive would be complete without a comment or two about the green slug and Francis.

“Dad!” Joe tattled. “Francis just texted Zuñi a smiley face!”

“He’s debating which he likes more… ‘Bacon or Zuñi… Bacon or Zuñi…’”

“’Shelley.’”

But Dad was more distracted with finding the remote for the garage.

“Shelley ate it,” Joe offered.