One Way or Another
Dream Account
Colin Farrell, with several accompanying friends dressed brightly as ancient Aztecs [maybe], bright red feathers and, things… were holing themselves up in my parents’ basement storage room. I was involved, I know, somehow. Maybe they thought it was a bomb shelter or a living time capsule. But six years later, I opened the vault, realized that Colin was still there. Quite dead, stretched out flat on a shelf. but no decay. His Aztec companions were sort of in a dead sleep on the other shelf.
“Well,” I thought to myself. “It’s all my fault. Sorry, Colin.”
I assumed the blame was mine due to some napkin with numbers and letters written on it that also sat on the shelf.
“I guess I’d better try to tell his family so they can come get the body. Maybe Uncle Mo has some contacts…”
I sent him an email.
As the Day Rolls
Sometime after breakfast blackberries [not the box with the caterpillar in it], Puck switched on the red lens over the Playskool flashlight. I could honestly tell him that the wild faces he made over the top of the light were decently frightening.
I don’t always have an explanation for why my son does what he does. With the collared shirt and black jeans, yellow boots, he added a Christmas-themed tie, black knit gloves, and a pipe bowl on the thumb walking around the church early in the morning. Linnea-Irish joined me in Sunday School once again, with a friend. They made up a quarter of the attendants themselves as Babe Ruth discussed more of the connections of pagan Scandinavian-German winter solstice to current Christmas traditions. Can’t say any of them were all that surprising. Although I guess most of them sound more like fairy tales anyway.
Carrie was finishing stuffed peppers and stuffed shells for lunch. Her finger wasn’t throbbing anymore, fortunately. But preparing large dishes becomes a little more tedious with nine fingers instead of ten. Puck played with a bowl of old rubber stamps while we waited. Someone had fixed up the fire in the wood stove; probably Dad. Of course we had to open the windows in the end, because it got too hot. But they were still predicting flurries. Francis fell asleep on the couch after a more serious table around the candles and hot pans of food. Cults, gnosticism, the timeline/languages of Scripture, shady church dealings… who says the Crusades are the greatest black mark in Christian history… which I would debate weren’t Christian in the first place… rabbit trail, rabbit trail… I don’t know how Francis can fall asleep that fast. He gets that from the Combs side of the family. The Bear just sits with his fancy iPhone and sifts through Greek text and flashcards in every spare minute. His Wednesday final marks the official end of the first third of his life in ancient Greek. He didn’t do it for long, though. Apparently it was more fun to flash-bulb the camera in Francis’ and Linnea’s faces instead.
“Look at these scented trash bags!” Mom paraded a sample around the circle in the living room for smell tests.. “I think it smells like a baby!”
Rose was at work. Again. Punk. She stalked through the front door in her church jeans, lace top, and vest, ready to join the family Christmas photo. Or not so ready. But we did anyway. Three snaps later – Mom and Dad napped, The Bear researched pipe collections, Puck snacked on a bicycle seat filled with corn chips… I don’t know… the boys polished the headlights from the Green Slug.
By the way, I think I’ve reached that plateau of parenting where my child can compare my past to that of the Cretaceous period. It was only Friday, I think, when Puck formed the series of questions…
“Mom? Were there stores back then when you were a kid?”
“Uh… yes…”
“That sold milk?”
“Yeah…”
He paused, carefully…
“I don’t believe it.”
“Were there refrigerators?”
“Yes…”
“Christmas trees?”
“Uh huh…”
“How many things were there back then?”
You can’t have a children’s Christmas concert without at least a little disaster. Mild to moderate. The first song went ok. Even if Puck echoed every word loudly enough to make it seem like he was the only one singing. But for the second selection he made the mistake of almost knocking over the little girl in front of him. She wasn’t so pleased, and gave him a look as if to say, “That’s your first warning, mister.” Unfortunately when the girl beside Puck began poking the headband of the girl in front of Puck, she naturally assumed it was Puck.
“It wasn’t me!” Puck protested loudly.
Again, a finger poked the shiny black flower in the headband.
“Don’t blame me for it!” Puck declared again. “I didn’t do it!”
This sort of went on and on until the end of the song. And by that end, there were enough cookies and punch and wassail to make the level of noise even worse.