We Need More of That
Rain.
Finally.
“Dad! Can you help me find my antique car Grandma Combs gave me?… Thanks!”
Yes, Puck was on the prowl again at a [less] early hour, fortunately. Maybe the rain had lulled him asleep longer. Or maybe it was the new and improved set of curtains. The kitchen windows steamed over from eggs boiling on the stove, and Puck’s oatmeal. Splashes of rain still settled in deep puddles in the neighbor’s yard. Good thing we don’t have dogs. Puck found the ceramic manger scene in the basement.
“Where are all the people, Mom?”
“I think baby Jesus might be in the spice cabinet…”
He was. Don’t ask me; I don’t remember.
We made corn muffins before lunch. We also made them taste better, and less crumbly. When the weather is wet, you resort. Puck had earlier finished rinsing more dishes for me with great enthusiasm. He now bolstered more of the same and eagerly offered to stir the cornmeal mix, milk, and eggs together. He sampled some of the batter with me before we added the egg.
“No more, Mom. No more,” he warned me, carefully guarding his sunny charge.
So I melted butter in the muffin pan while he finished mixing.
The puddles died away long enough for our daily constitutional. I think Puck would talk to every living creature if it would talk to him in return. He’ll often sort of giggle at all the dogs barking us down the street, and usually offer some explanation as to why. Today it was…
“They see the book I’m carrying, so they’re barking.”
What makes perfect sense to a five-point-five year-old.
Puck always has to be curious about something. Somewhere inside, not so very deep, is the heart of a good Balboa. This evening, he unwrapped the cover and stuffing of an old journal that I had stapled over in that tartan chenille plaid. Out tumbled discarded pieces of old quilt scraps from his paternal great-great grandmother and some of my tossed finger-weaving in orange-yellow. Puck arranged the oddly-shaped quilting pieces on the linoleum…
“I might be the richest man in Tennessee if I go to Tennessee to sell them. They’re so ancient and so… quil-ty.”
The Bear joined friends at a cigar club tonight in the city. So Puck and I switched on the Christmas lights, and partied it up with library volumes. Maybe a little mild cheddar.