One Till Seven

Dream on the night: examining boards of ancient white petrified seashells during the Reformation service at Kirk of the Hills, chilly October night. Who knows why, really. Not worth evaluating, I’m sure.

10:45, an ant came running frantically through double-spaced lines on my manuscript. First on the season. I took the page to the front door and attempted to blow him off into the outdoors. No budge; hurricane forces didn’t help. I finally shook him off instead. Puck noted this interaction from behind the iPad on the couch. I explained the situation. Puck put on his I-can-fix-this-for-you-Mom face; I could hear it in his voice.

“I know you’re just trying to help, Mom. But if they come into our house and eat our food, we will starve. Ants aren’t more important than we are. They were made to eat too. Even anteaters think they’re delicious. But the problem is, if they invade our house, we won’t have anything to eat, you know?”

A few games of dominoes before lunch led to Puck requesting a side-by-side English-to-Spanish translation of various phrases to learn for his brother’s arrival – potentially the following summer – including:

Do not tug the cat’s tail.

“That is a very important one, Mom, because he will probably do that a lot.”

We hit up the library and Schnucks for birthday supplies for Friday: sandwiches, giant cookie, a coveted can of 32-cent orange soda for Puck. Driving past a tiny church on the corner, Puck saw the “For Sale” sign planted in the grass:

“Is that church not used anymore, Mom?”

“Nope. They probably outgrew it and had to move somewhere else.”

“Could I buy it? I need a place for my lab.”

“Well, maybe when you’re older you can ask the bank for a loan.”

“I could do that?”

“Well, it would take awhile to pay back all that money. You’d have to write them a check every month.”

The face in my rearview mirror looked unconvinced.

“Or you could just get a job when you’re done with school and live with Dad and me for a few years to buy the whole thing at once. Then you’d have your lab.”

Puck had made his decision.

“No… I’ll just ask Papa to give me some wood.”

Back home I fixed up the giant chocolate chip cookie, removing the “Happy Easter” plastic sign in the center and replacing it with a tealight, our regular substitute for birthday candles.

Over dinner, Puck enjoyed a Disney 1960s French olive-picking monkeys film that I half-watched. Mostly because I don’t like monkeys.