Ready for Summer
In a warm Saturday morning, I pulled myself out of dreams: driving through South Carolina countryside at golden sunset, weathered graveyards and antique greenhouses from 1907.
When I met up with the kitchen later, Puck had second breakfast plans already in the works. Before I knew it, he had dumped an entire box of rigatoni into a pot of cold water and set it on the stove.
Mom called: plans for Puck’s early birthday celebration Sunday afternoon. And Francis had just left for a week of playing hooky in Florida.
Rose sent me a photo of her new perm; looking good.
El Oso brushed up glass from a busted peanut butter jar on the patio – lingering from the cold months when no one stepped outdoors; don’t remember how that happened – and hacked up the lawn to discourage puddles from seeping into the basement during heavy rainfall. Somehow made me feel like we live in a classy neighborhood.
Puck plunged through the front door of the Silverspoon’s with a cluster of potent white crabapple blossoms. Shoved them up to my nose:
“BWAH HA HA HA HA!”
Theodore brought back a box of ribs from the corner BBQ man.
78 degrees on the afternoon and Puck lugged the lawn sprinkler out of the yard shed:
“E-YEAH-HAA-HAA!!” he yelled, jumping across the line of fire.
Sebastian joined him whenever possible, woofing at the front door about thirty times to come in, or out, whenever the thought suited him, generally about every three minutes. Can never make up his mind.
My eyes were mostly unpeeled on the game, of course, and another pack of Reeses from the dining room bureau drawer – I begin to think Gloria wants to fatten me up – Theodore and El Oso trucked back some patio furniture with red cushions for the deck. While they arranged table, chairs, and large green cloth umbrella, Puck – soaked and happy – set up a special corner of the deck for the gentlemen with burgers and beers from the kitchen:
“I’m doing this for a surprise for them,” he said, including napkins, knives, and forks on the board. “They’ve been working hard.”
Puck found Joe’s jar of peanut butter sitting in the back seat of the truck on the drive home:
“You’d better check and make sure that peanut butter isn’t expired so Uncle Joe doesn’t eat it. Don’t blame me if he eats expired peanut butter… Look at that pilot way up there. He’s so high he can’t even breathe. If that captain isn’t paying attention, he’ll get struck by lightning. And I’m not even joking.”