What You Do in Summer Sundays

I was peeled away from exploring giant Egyptian cave-tombs by the announcement from my son that – “I have a boo-boo on my toe!” “Is it bleeding?” “Yes.” “You shouldn’t be wandering around the basement without shoes on,” was Bear’s concerned reply. [Fortunately, he has his tetanus shot.] “What time did you get back last night?” I asked the Bear. “Midnight-thirty,” came the beleaguered reply as he slammed a pillow back over his head, but not before he had presented yogurt and a Naked green machine fruit drink to Puck for his breakfast.

I proceeded to dress for church, one color short of Colombia’s flag, and two short of the Olympic rings.

The Bear visited church on his motorcycle this morning, while Puck and I followed in the back-heavy Mazda. He has a handful of biker friends, almost all of which are actually pretty quiet people. In fact, I don’t think any of them has hair past his ears, visible piercings, or even a single tattoo. So OLeif’s really the only odd man out, especially when his hair does tickle his shoulders, which, well, maybe that hasn’t quite happened yet. And that “brown stud” he keeps in his right ear, which so many people still haven’t figured out is actually not an earring. “Who would pick a brown one anyway?” the Bear wants to know. So he and one of these biking buddies strapped up their gear after Sunday School and trailed on over to Washington, Missouri, for lunch.

Before the service, though, Daisy-Jean walked over to Puck for their weekly mini chat, right before the gathering music finished. “This is for Crackers,” she whispered, as the music began to die down. Puck’s eyes got that big way they do a lot. “Thank you, Miss Daisy!” Fortunately one of the few times he fire-worked an exclamation without bringing the roof down. A fuzzy mouse with curly ears – a fun batting-around toy for Puck and the cat.

Also before the service, Mr. Ichabod Coca-Cola passed off his recent edition of the Olympics “Sports Illustrated” so I can catch up on all the articles of impending greatness. If Puck is a thrill junkie, I’m an Olympics junkie. I never really think I’ll get “that into it” yet again, but I always do. Something about that fanfare, I guess. Ever since a particular women’s volleyball match in Sydney, right before my wedding. It’s like something snapped, and ever since, I can’t help but get sucked in.

When I walked in the door at Mom’s and Dad’s, Rose – her hair pulled back in a rat tail, donned in a set of Carrie’s scrubby sweats and a gnawed-through political t-shirt – was whacking at Francis with her iPod cable. “It doesn’t count until I get your backside,” she insisted. Francis was not so inclined to agree. Carrie, saying something about how Rose “brought the wrong beans” was stirring pots on the stove, including a cheese dip for corn chips and a home-pulled pork stewed in root beer and Coca-Cola which was, weirdly, good.

There’s always a predicted level of ridiculousness during Sunday afternoon lunch table talk, and this time I recall Rose saying something about her former escapades with Annamaria when young critters… “Yeah, I took her on the septic tank tour. She didn’t like that.” After this comment – completely unrelated – there was a mini supreme court session held over whether Linnea should be allowed to visit Six Flags when the heat index was scheduled to hit 110. The jury was hung, only because Linnea wasn’t in favor of a change in plans. So Judge Snicketts nailed down the final verdict, involving a later-in-the-day arrival with Francis as chauffeur. Linnea was as happy as a clam about to be eaten.

After the daily constitutional – well, naps – Dad just sort of stared Carrie down in the living room, who had spent the last hour scattering bunny fur all over the floor for the weekly shearing. “Mom’s going to be mad…” she sort of laughed to bunny number two, as she brushed more piles of angora-y fluff from her jeans. Then she and Francis tested out the garden hose access in the backyard, given that in recent years it flooded the basement every time someone creaked on that 27 year-old knob. It may or may not have happened again. All I saw was Carrie run downstairs with two armloads of bath towels.

It was sort of a sleepy afternoon, which resolved in an unofficial family discussion of what to get for dinner. “You all always want terrible food,” Carrie groaned, as she researched baby sloths. “Is it illegal to have pet sloths in the U.S.?” “Yes,” Rose immediately replied, wearing a towel around her head like a sheik. This is often how Sunday afternoons end up “happening”. Pizza it was. The pick-up included Carrie accompanying Mom and Dad garden hose shopping at Home Depot. Carrie was worried about all the tiny things hopping around the backyard.

After some more eighteen year-old family video parties, I drove Puck home. “Mama?” he asked me, examining carefully his Joseph Sunday School story sheet, painstakingly colored. “Do we have dungeons in St. Louis?” “Not really dungeons. But we have jails in the city.” “Oh. Mama? Have you ever been in jail?”