November Sundays
Sunday, November 6, 2011
In which a cold gray Sunday is passed in and out of doors…
After dreams about wandering through New York alone at night…
The chickens were back. This time, in the yard catty-corner. Puck observed them while eating his toast…
“It tastes very lovely, Dad.”
And when the pearlescent oversized marble escaped his hand during the breakfast, he scolded it saying…
“You get a punishment for that.”
The morning was properly November: gray and wind.
Prior to services, OLeif and the keyboardist discussed translating the Bible into Morse Code. Baby Hesed could see Francis up in the balcony working the sound…
“Uncle Fran! Uncle Fran!”
And Collette knew she was slightly short on sleep when she thought the sermon title read: “Blessed are the Pancakes”.
A congregational meeting and Voice of the Martyrs presentation followed in lieu of Sunday School, after which Linnea joined church friends for the afternoon.
Back at the house, while Puck learned how to butcher knock-knock jokes, Carrie had prepared cinnamon rolls, scrambled eggs, crunchy bacon, fruit salad, and hot cider.
The forum in the living room while Mom and Dad napped, centered mostly on Rose being followed around by the Chinese pediatrician at church every Saturday night.
“I hid in the girls’ bathroom,” was Rose’s one explanation. “It’s your fault, Carrie.”
“I guess it was partly my fault,” Carrie admitted. “I was making you out to be a nicer person than you really are…”
“See?” Rose agreed.
Joe came up from the basement…
“Puck, do you want to play kickball? We have to be quiet.”
Carrie had also registered to foster-mother two bunnies over the holidays. But a wiggle of the eyebrows indicated plans beyond fostering… Dad was not pleased.
Klondike Park was asking for company that afternoon in the continued cool gray. So Dad and the boys ran their own obstacle course, jumping from bumper curb to bumper curb, attempting to maintain balance. Then the boys and Rose popped some frisbees back and forth.
“This is the most pathetic frisbee game I’ve ever seen,” someone said.
“The wind caught that one.”
“I don’t catch grounders.”
“Sorrryyy!”
“I don’t catch the stupid ones.”
Linnea was picked up.
So was Cecil Whittaker’s.
Fiddler on the Roof. Some good old laughs.