One Hundred Twenty-One
Puck marched into Costco with earphones strapped onto his head. The heavy kind Francis wears to mow the lawn. He didn’t care that some people stared. He just walked in, solid red and Cardinals down the aisles, hunting out early food samples. There weren’t any ready though, even with the hour inching towards eleven. But he did find a twelve-pack box of organic or something macaroni in various cheeses, which he sold Mom on…
“Look, Grandma! There’s a picture of a BUN-BUN on the front!”
That was his sales pitch. In the cart. And because no edible samples were available yet, Mom offered him something from the snack bar.
Berry smoothie. $1.45.
“I think Uncle Fran is going to be pretty jealous of this smoothie, Grandma,” Puck philosophized, slurping the thick purple drink.
He got into the car and pondered further…
“I think that I will drink this slower, Mom, because last time I had a smoothie I choked from all the sugar.”
Processing.
We pulled back into the garage…
“Francis, are you jealous that I got a SMOOTHIE?”
“Yup,” Francis nodded, tinkering with the Ruckus.
He had plans to sell it. It had served its purpose.
“Alright, Puck. It’s about time to start school.”
“Mom, couldn’t I have a bit of a break?”
I guess an hour and a half at Costco and Target didn’t count.
Linnea threaded up my Native American bead loom as Puck slowly scooted through the dining room in Joe’s black roller skates – I didn’t really know where those came from – talking loudly about things…
“I think that YOUR HOUSE IS TITLED, GRANDMA! Because I rolled down it without pushing MYSELF!”
Leftover sausage, kale, and potato soup. A box of white macaroni and cheese for Puck and the kids.
The air was heavy with pollen. I could feel it in my warm face and my dry eyes. Nasty. Carrie was fixing more of the uneven patches in the sidewalk by the porch. The cement was drying. Mom’s hair was pretty red from the henna; she was finishing the process that afternoon to tone the red, before yoga. Francis was sent to Home Depot by Carrie to return with a bag of grass seed for no more than $6. On pain of death. This is my family.
I took Puck outside and tested his bike – held up well – pushed him in the swing, until it was time for school. By that time it was after almost two o’clock.
“Puck, did you leave the patio door open?”
“Mom. You opened that door. I saw you do it, pacifically [specifically].”
We talked hair options for a little while as the afternoon continued to heat. Spiral perm, henna, bleach blonde…
“I’ll take red hair,” Puck shrugged hopefully. “If there’s any of that?”
Carrie suggested a Kool-Aid dye for the Valley of Flowers parade, Sunday.
Math. Puck was being uncooperative that afternoon, but it didn’t take much to make him grin. I saw a sneeze coming…
“Puck, cover your mouth…”
He grinned at me…
“I aimed for the flowers!”
He took a break and skated back into the living room where Mom read Egyptology notes to Linnea while Carrie dyed Mom’s hair. The smell was potent…
“That’s disgusting,” Puck announced.
Carrie spooned swamp-green plaster onto Mom’s hair. More henna. Mom continued to read…
“Often, the embalmers would have to step outside to get away from the rancid smell…”
“That’s what I’m trying to get away from,” Puck cut in, holding his nose.
The Puck and Grandma box revealed “the world’s tiniest paint set” as Mom called it, which Puck decided to wear around his neck to Curly’s wedding.
About the time Puck walked up the basement stairs wearing the old pink tutu that they used to put on Trooper, I knew we had probably reached the limit of ridiculousness allowed for one day. But with Puck, the fun just doesn’t stop.
In fact, his day was capped off completely when, after a long active night at church, climbing into his Angry Birds covers for the very first time, Crackers snuggled down there with him. Happy cat, happy boy. And, of course, The Happy Hollisters read by his dad into the blue night.
Adoption Status: Down: 3 years, 8 months; To Go: 2 years, 7 months.
