Saddle Up
My last full day at home before Spring-Training-or-Bust began with the familiar sound of cracking glass:
“Oh, Crackers!”
The delicate purple crocus Puck had picked for me – well, let’s be honest; Crackers had already mutilated the first three – the fourth crocus in question had taken a spill off the windowsill in my room. (I know it was murder.) So had the little orange juice glass that once belonged to Grandpa Combs. Yes, I had another one. But that wasn’t the point. Crackers was homicidal. And I only encouraged her by arranging glassware and blooms on precarious ledges. I know she claims it was suicide. But I know better.
We were running on a theme. While I pulled the semi-dusty black duffle out of hiding to begin the process … another rattle. This one, however, retained a more ceramic tone:
“Puck?”
“Uh … Mom … I, uh … uh … well it’s good news because your bowl didn’t break. It was just the Cardinals cup.”
Way to be diplomatic, my son. You have been taught well. Sure, and it was only a freebie from the St. Louis-Texas match-up last June. I was a little more concerned about knowing whether or not Puck had polished off the oatmeal in the non-broken bowl.
Quiet Hour. Puck still can’t stay away. He had already helped me pack – profusely offering his services – and now saw me sitting in the patch of sun on an expansive sun-yellow bedspread. Just too comfy to resist temptation:
“May I join you?”
He snuggled in next to me with his Pin Art and a magnet: fully entertained.
We had a mild afternoon. I caught Puck watering the yard crocuses with his un-drunk glass of water from lunch. Busted. Lounging on the driveway with Crackers, watching school buses rumble by. Building out Donkey’s and Buck’s new cardboard home in a Tagalongs box. Library for Jim Gaffigan’s book. Schnucks for a gallon of distilled water and a box of St. Patrick’s Day shamrock cakes, Little Debbie’s style. Had to celebrate the Irish heritage one more time with my little man before departure (although Carrie will insist to you that we have nothing of the kind).
Blue evening. Kids playing basketball on the street. Laughing over Simon’s Cat books. El Oso drove up just at Puck’s bedtime. I got his bunk ready:
“Puck, I forgot about all the blankets you unfolded on top of your bed. You need to fold those up while I’m gone. That place is just asking for a spider population to move in.”
“Yeah! Population one-oh-six-five! Ah ha ha ha HA HA HA HA HA HA!