Send More Storms
It was storming before five o’clock that morning. Might be one of the best sounds in the world.
A couple of hours later, the wind was strong and rolling through the trees.
Puck skated through the house on the same smooth rubber wheels before breakfast. I recalled his conversation with Anna the previous afternoon.
Anna: “My mom is more amazing – well, a little more amazing – than your mom.”
Puck: “Well, does she let you scooter in the house?’
Anna: “No … but she’s really nice. She gave me two computers. She gives me anything I want.”
Puck: “No, she doesn’t.”
Anna: “Well…”
The girls were waiting for us at the Big House. Irish was still asleep. Volleyball and Steak ‘n Shake till about one o’clock in the morning put her down for the count till way late.
In the Puck & Grandma Box? Two packs of orange Kool-aid. To make play-dough. Anything orange, this kid just gobbles it up.
Carrie introduced me to the plants of the spring in the yard: citronella, lavender, mint, bleeding heart, oregano, etc. including the white rose, a clipping from Thomas Jefferson’s home that had been mostly murdered when Dad mowed the lawn last. Apparently he claimed that he hadn’t meant to slice it; he merely miscalculated. I’m not sure Carrie was convinced.
Then we broke the news to Carrie: tickets to the Angels-Royals series at the end of June in Kansas City. David Freese playing third base again, provided the boy could stay healthy over the next three and a half weeks.
The afternoon saw us flirting with the rain; nothing much.
Carrie, Irish, and I drove out to World Market to collect some upcoming birthday gifts, smelling all the imported soaps: honey, orange, lotus flower. I’m pretty sure Irish came for the sole purpose of a pocky stick fix.
Mom made dumplings for dinner. Snuggles, as usual, was being a pain, scavenging for anything edible. I tossed him some cheese. Gone. Then he went for the sour cream.
That evening while Puck was changing into his jams, he showed me the name graffiti he added to my siblings’ on the bunk bed:
“Look what I scarred into my bed, Mom, so everyone knows it’s my post.”