Missed North
“Alright, Captain Noisy Pants,” Oxbear walked into the kitchen that morning. “Time to leave.”
“Your nose is noisy.”
“Your nose is noisy.”
I left just after the boys, off to record new and exciting podcasts fifteen minutes away at the Big House. Also exciting – possibility of severe storms developing in the west.
While we waited for something interested to hit the radar, Carrie-Bri took opportunity to hit the skies for the first time since November, Francis kept tinkering away on Oxbear’s truck (always finding something else the mechanic apparently performed incorrectly on it), and I joined Mom to plant shop for mosquito propellants – lavender, geraniums, and lemon thyme. The four-dollar succulent I picked up for our table Puck named, “Poke”.
On the drive back from school, Puck discussed the idea of turning garbage into gold, one-upping the old alchemists of days past.
“We would be so rich, we could buy anything,” he pondered the idea for awhile. Then he went in a different direction. “Know anyone I can sue?”
“What’s the worst thing anyone has ever done to you?”
“Once a kid on the playground called me ‘stupid face’ … I gotta sue that guy.”
After homework (of all books to read, Puck chose “Scottish Chiefs”), taco soup, Puck asking Carrie to fold him another airplane, and Wishbone, Puck and I packed up to drive home. As soon as I buckled in – tornado sirens. Back inside, bunnies in the basement, TV on.
“Puck, that calls for a celebration kiss!” Carrie declared as the sirens whined.
Puck groaned.
“Well, one day you might kiss a girl.”
“No, I hate girls. Plus, they’re disgusting, plus they’re ugly.”
We’ll see how long that lasts.
In the end, the tornado was nowhere near us; way north, so we packed up for home again, splitting the highway: explosive sun beams in the southwest, torrential downpours cascading in the northeast.
Later that night, I trimmed Oxbear’s hair, Crackers rolling around in the pile of clippings like it was money. Weirdo cat.
So after all that expectation of good stuff, we once again failed to witness a gold old-fashioned highly severe set of storms. Blame it on the river; who knows.