Middle Week
Crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch … crunch crunch crunch.
It woke me, but I wasn’t self-motivated enough to inspect. El Oso walked out to the living room instead to check out the food mongering. “It’s just dried pasta, Dad. It’s just dried pasta.” Head start on Thursday’s dinner.
Puck spent the first ten minutes of his morning at the Big House explaining the plot of Wall-E, in great detail, to his Sun. Then she tried to distract him with a crackly recording of Shoofly Pie; not effective. Later, he agreed to snuggle with her, wrapped in a soft cranberry blanket, listening to the Wall-E soundtrack on Carrie’s computer.
While Puck sat in for a 98-minute viewing of Wall-E – oh glories! – in the basement, wrapped in two blankets with a peanut butter banana sandwich, and Irish as babysitter, I joined Mom and Carrie-Bri shopping (and picked up some pocky sticks for Puck). Then at the post office, shipping off Vanbuskirk’s truffles to no-longer Mrs. Lord-Welches in Iowa.
Before the UPS man dropped off a box of black soap and 25 pounds of organic milled flour later that afternoon, Puck hunted in the junk drawer under the blipping screen of the nordic combined, chanting to himself, “Bacon bacon bacon. I hate fake bacon because it reminds me of real bacon. Bacon bacon bacon. I love bacon but I hate fake bacon. Ho ho ho ho ho ho.” Then Puck asked to watch Wall-E again. I declined that offer.
Carrie rolled pinwheel bites for dinner. Puck set the whole table with dishes, food, and more flatware than was necessary. Irish had already left for volleyball practice; she looked pretty cute driving down the street by herself. Mom left later to join her at the English house Bible study. Dad read “The Happy Hollisters” to Puck on the couch while we waited for El Oso’s return. This included a conversation about ghosts. Puck had many questions. Dad served them right back. Finally, Puck felt himself out-questioned. “Well, the ghosts would be armless, Grandpa.” “Do you mean harmless?” “No, armless.” “Why would they be armless?” “Oh, Grandpa, let’s just forget about it and just get back to reading!”
Night was upon us. The black truck was finally returned, three weeks after visiting the hospital. Hopefully cured after its severe illness.
Crackers joined us at the table that night while El Oso worked on a bowl of pasta. Ever since I’ve put plants on the table, she always takes the hard way around, slipping behind them, under the branching leaves. I like to think she thinks she’s a bobcat, or a tiger slinking through the jungle.