"Muh-nuh-muh-nuh..."
Tuesday, November 9, 2004
A day unnecessary for tutoring meant that Collette had the entire day to study, and she would once again take advantage of it. The night before went quickly. She had grabbed a box of Bisquick from the shelf in the kitchen and soon there was a nice hot bubbling chicken noodle soup with dumplings in the kettle. Before this, a whirlwind shopping trip was in order, and they returned with the Moss’ gift, including cherry Andes mints. With these, there was included hand soap, a CLUE detective game in a wooden box (for a part of the family’s Christmas gift), two packages of stark red thank yous and muted manly colors (in forest, rust, sunflower, and cocoa) for OLeif to complete, five $1.00 silver screen DVDs (including “The Road to Bali”) for later gifts, and assorted foreign coffees for Shepherd’s twenty-third birthday the following Monday.
Meanwhile, the aurora borealis appeared in Chicago and was supposed to have visited St. Louis with its silken violet and emerald banners; however, OLeif and Collette saw nothing of it.
Hmmmm, Collette had thought to herself, I wonder what else will be going on in 147days? As she noticed a lit electric sign for the number of days till the grand opening of a Schnucks on Mid Rivers during their travels that night.
‘OLeif,” she said, “Remind me if I forget – ‘rye’ and ‘147 days’. Alright?”
“OK,” OLeif said. “Rye, 147 days. 147 days of rye, 147 days of rye.”
He repeated this to himself several times until he felt that it was memorized. (Although he forgot to mention it until he called at noon from work the next day to remind her). He did not even ask what it was for; he was used to her odd list of things to remember.
She later discovered that the date would come on April 4th, 2005. She set it aside to see what would happen in 147 days.
Meanwhile, other things on her list for Tuesday: decorate a picture frame and its backing to mount a delicate antique silver teaspoon (slightly bent) and send back down to Texas for OLeif’s aunt’s spoon collection. The aunt had sent a spoon to be decorated – to all of her nieces and nephews. Two – make chili for dinner with colby-jack cheese and Fritos. Three – write Violet, a good old friend from the choir years who had been married July 10th of that year with bridesmaids in dresses the shade of red-hots, Gerbera daisies of the same color, and a crystal tiara for herself. It was there that she and OLeif met her great-aunt, a former nun, lead-foot, and very friendly and optimistic woman. She provided good stories and laughs throughout the reception. It was quite fun. Collette and Violet had been writing each other since Violet graduated from choir two springs ago. There she left the world of the altos and became a bank teller where Collette also worked briefly from St. Patrick’s Day till August 16th of the previous year before she went back to her college studies. And that was that for the day.
She thought of the funny grimace OLeif would make from time to time. The “angry butterfly”, she would call it. And then how that morning she had hummed through the muppet song that she and Carrie-Bri had always loved to watch – the maniac little dude with fluffy orange hair flopping in his eyes and the aliens with O-shaped mouths and wide eyes.
“Sing it again,” OLeif said with almost a child-like giggle. He started her off, “Muh-nuh-muh-nuh…”
She smiled at him; it was actually more funny to see him get tickled by it.
She took over from where he left off. “Do do, do do do… muh-nuh-muh-nuh… do do do do. Muh-nuh-muh-nuh… do do, do do do, do do do, do do do, do do do do do, do do. Do. Do. Do.”
OLeif actually rocked with laughter. Collette thought it was funnier on television with the actual muppets. But then again, if it made OLeif laugh, it made her laugh too.
Other things went through her mind – old black and white detective films from the fifties or on old radio shows… her friend, Mercy, and how she slept with the window open during winter with the snow, under fifteen comforters… Later in the day she thought about the little crystal port glasses that she used to grab a fizzy soda now and then – she thought of how they might be filled with Caribbean pirate rum in the hull of the captain’s ship with treasure chests and maps about, the usual talking parrot, and pirate scum out on the deck… she read of Alexander III of Russia, a herculean man, who twisted iron pokers into knots for the amusement of his son, Nicholas, and his friends… The !Kung tribe in Africa, who didn’t keep track of how old they were, nor how many children they had, nor where they moved… Watching Wuthering Heights, she came upon a description she liked – “A milk sop with buttons on his shoes.”… The title for a book she might find somewhere among American nostalgia in ballet, gymnastics, or music, maybe art or the cinema, or perhaps the book of a person with some unusual life job – like testing herbs and flower scents for perfumes, creating new colors for m’nms, or teaching Irish dance on an Indian reservation, or a professional re-enactor in a Renaissance Fair – “White Blood” would be its title.
Of course none of these made a great deal of sense, but they flashed through the mind from time to time. She had also thought of a nice date for her and OLeif to take sometime the coming new year. She happened to see a clip on the news about how ice hockey was now locked out, and indoor soccer was returning instead. She felt rather sorry for the team, however, as a very small crowd graced the blue bleachers. Although OLeif wasn’t exactly a big fan of soccer, it could be fun.
And after, or maybe before, Bissengers would be just around the corner. She remembered how OLeif had taken her there back in the early spring when they were engaged, a nice cool gray day downtown by the cathedrals and the wealthy boutiques and galleries and grills. Bissengers was delightful, darkly lit, with a homey small-town, honey-toned, yet high class feel about it. There, the chocolates were displayed like jewelry under glass cases. There were truffles with raspberry cream, marzipan fruits, chocolate peanut butter cups, and thick frosted pansies and half sugar-coated candied orange slices… every thing her chocolate-loving heart could desire, except for the oranges. They slipped the small, but delicious order, into a crisp, crinkly paper bag. It reminded her of the days they would drop by Straub’s after class at the university for a root beer or water crackers and goat cheese. One Christmas he purchased for her every sort of chocolate fluff she could have ever wanted from Straub’s – Harry and David, raspberry dusted, marzipan-filled delights. It had been a pleasant afternoon.
And now it was after six, and while San Diego appeared cool and warm at once on the screen in its late afternoon sunshine, the sun had set in St. Louis.
Pachabel’s Canon came to mind then. As much as it was overplayed, she liked it a certain way – tasteful, spritely, and original for Christmas or a wealthy wedding ceremony. She thought of the show she had just flipped on – wealthy grandparents, heirs to the Cambell Soup empire perhaps, Yale alumni, who had been to Denmark at least a dozen times, and wished to introduce their granddaughter (decked out in diamonds, a little black dress, and tiara) to distinguished Yale men in Polo and law, in order to find a suitable husband, a modern twist on the Cinderella prince in search of his princess bride via a social wealthy royal gathering…