The Farmer's Almanac Predicted It
The dusting had begun; not enough to keep El Oso off the road, but the ice blue jaws of the frozen monster surging in from the west on the radar, did. All day, in fact.
Despite this fact, Puck was still able to focus on school, digging in with one Dixon Ticonderoga pencil behind his ear and another in his hand. “Is it just me, or are these pencils #4s?” He had also found a new blue kitchen sponge in the 9-pack I keep under the sink. He begged one off of me, sitting with it during math. “What should I call him? Fred? Or Junior. How about Junior?”
Our dance parties kept the cold out and the energy in. We did, however, have different opinions on moves. Puck thought mine weren’t cool enough:
“You live in your world, Mom. I’ll live in mine. Keep your own moves over there.”
“What if I pollute your moves with my moves?”
“You can’t. I have a force field.”
“What if I break your force field?”
“You can’t.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I’ve seen The Incredibles.”
El Oso cooked up a huge pan of Oriental stir fry, minus the sauce, for his separate lunch. Aromas of something nearer acrylic paint filled the air, although Puck insisted it had a different likeable scent. “It’s just like Aunt Petunia’s house. If you’ll smell deep into it, you’ll agree with me.” I couldn’t admit the parallel, what with my broken nose that apparently compared steamed mini corn and water chestnuts to an art supplies store, and ate my peanut butter toast into the shape of Australia.
The snow hadn’t quite finished up, five or six inches deep from the looks of the patio fire pit top. Puck and I explored how Europe mutilated four or more continents in as many centuries before he tugged on his snow suit – backwards – and joined El Oso in the fluff.
We played dominoes – the three of us – after plates of pork chops and mashed potatoes, read about Canadian owls. More books as 7:30 approached, the six-years-old to eight-years-old bedtime. I have a method. Puck chasing Crackers through the house with a maniacal laugh, claws and paws clattering frantically across the kitchen linoleum for safety. Puck laughed again, “Wow! She certainly jumped to conclusions!” Symphony Hershey’s chocolate. Maybe my new favorite Hershey’s. Automatically more creamy, and therefore a softer chocolate than ordinary Hershey’s milk chocolate. And other thoughts and philosophies on the day that probably didn’t much matter but certainly made the day more interesting without trying too hard.