November 23

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Thanksgiving was one of those holidays that Collette did not so very much enjoy. Of course the gathering of family was not the trouble. It was more the matter of the spread of strange food: stuffing, cranberry sauce, strange salads filled with things that seemed befitting of being boiled in a black cauldron in Medieval woods, and turkey… As the Peanuts would say, Blech. Unless it was deli carved, turkey was not worth its weight in turkey feathers. Particular? Perhaps…

Dad was the designated babysitter that morning. So while Francis and Linnea continued with their studies, Puck and Dad read endlessly on the couch and then Puck eagerly showed his grandpa his new playhouse in the backyard.

As Puck was going down for his Quiet Hour, he informed Collette that there was a fly buzzing about the room.

“It’s alright,” Collette told him. “Flies don’t bite. They just want to sniff you and see what you smell like.”

“It’s a baby fly,” he said.

“It could be a baby fly…”

Puck though about this for a moment, and then returned to let the fly sniff.

“Fly Baby! Fly Baby!” he whispered to it.

And the bowl on the kitchen table was filled with bananas and pomegranates.

Sometime in the afternoon, Puck walked into the kitchen and wrinkled his nose at Collette’s piles of papers and notebooks.

“Aww! This is classic.”

“What’s classic?”

“All this junk everywhere.”

“This isn’t junk, Puck. It’s all my writings.”

“Well, I like you,” he said slowly. “But I don’t like all this classic junk.”

And Collette could only laugh.

“You’re my best, Puck.”

And all in all, it was a quiet day.

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