Wish Granted

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Still in recovery mode, Collette packed up the bags while Puck ran around in the early gray wind in the yard with the front door open shortly after seven.
76 was on the day’s slate.
40’s and a few thunderstorms for Thursday.

Paul’s Donuts graced the glass cake stand on the kitchen counter…
“Save the jelly one for Joe,” Dad instructed.
And shiny green paper shamrocks spread on the dining room table with the fiddling of Ireland on the record player.
Joe emerged to down the donut before adjusting seating in the big green van with Dad for the day’s upcoming activities, and scribbling over a sheet of PETA stickers before walking out the door to work.

Grewe arrived for some lunch with magazine in hand.
“Check out this article, Sun,” she said. “It’s about the great people in history who crashed like you. I think you’re like Alexander the Great. Read it.”

Leave it to Grandma Combs.
She had arranged for Francis to pick up his very own Thunderbolt tornado siren, all equipment included, fully operational. All he needed was a license to place it on a pole in the backyard. Which wouldn’t happen of course. But that’s why the big green van was in commission that day. Dad… wasn’t so happy.
Collette and Puck tagged along.
Grandma Combs was waiting at St. John’s with a sack of cuties, apples, Little Debbie’s, and chocolate-cinnamon bears.
“Oh, I love those,” Mom was saying. “They remind me of Turkish Delight.”
With Grandma to navigate, Francis escorted them into Arnold under a sky raked in rows of gray and white. Just under the bridge by the Meramec River in front of the vacant paintball woods was the graveyard of all tornado sirens. They were many, and they were yellow. Francis’ Thunderbolt was up front and center, where the head fellow – who might have been a relative of Mr. Mather – fired up the construction shovel and hoisted the horn into the back of the van, as it was “way too heavy” to manually lift.
“It really ain’t that heavy,” the African American fellow chuckled to Francis, aside. “He just likes using those big machines.”
Nearby, an Hispanic man pounded away on discarded electrical boxes.
A few extra equipment boxes and wires accompanied the load.
They were very obliging.
“Want a collection?” the head man called to Francis from behind the shovel. “One of every kind?”
They were, after all, headed for the dump.
“It’s saying, ‘Somebody saved me!’” said Grandma later. “’I’m saved from the trash heap!’”
“That’s right, poor thing,” Mom added, as Francis eagerly glided the van into the McDonald’s parking lot.
Grandma needed a fillet ‘o fish sandwich fix.
Puck was down for a cold chocolate milk.
And Francis had a hankering for soda and fries.
“This is a celebration,” Grandma insisted, pulling out her wallet. “Although I’m not the one who’s going to have to deal with The Snicketts,” she eyed Mom.

So Dad…
Well, it was predictable.
“So where are we going to put it?” Mom asked, not even bothering with the question of how they were going to put it anywhere at all.
“The front yard,” Dad replied promptly. “You wanted it for a decoration, didn’t you?”
He was kind of a good sport about the whole thing, really.
The siren had still not left the van’s premises by the time Collette and Puck left that evening.

Joe departed for social interactions after work and Francis hit up a second shift at the Y; their usual Wednesday routine.
Carrie had questions for Puck…
“Puck, do you know what erosion is?”
“No.”
“It’s when water wears away at rocks and land over time.”
“Oh.”
“I’m going to erode your cheeks with kisses.”
“No!”
“I’m going to give you cheek caves!”
“I don’t want a cheek cave!”
“Well, then I’m going to erode your cheeks with canyons.”
“I don’t want a cheek canyon eeder [either]!”
“Well, I want one. Come give me a kiss.”

Eight… teen kids.
Eighteen.
Very thankfully wild running out in the cool dusk with flashlights, bubbles, chalk, and freeze pops.
“I’m herding sheep, Collette,” Idlewild laughed.
At least Richard was available to let them chase him for awhile – sort of a Chinese dragon giant puppet effect. So Collette and Idlewild had a few minutes to talk about Anneliese’s second youngest sister, Opal, and her similarities to Carrie as the second-born second-girl tomboy of the family.
“Well, we’ve had to call Poison Control three times already…” Idlewild was saying. “And the other day I found her. She had gotten into the fridge and lined up an onion and raw hot dogs, just taking bites out of all of them.”
“Well it least it wasn’t raw egg,” Collette offered, and shared stories of Carrie’s childhood encounters with chugged Tabasco sauce, holes in the roof of her mouth, and plastic surgery at eight…
When chaos dimmed at seven under a table slammed with Playdough and cookie cutters, Collette was tired enough to allow OLeif to convince her that Chick-fil-A was an admirable idea. Of course it was. Who could say “no” to a good old-fashioned chicken sandwich, special sauce, waffle fries, and a few sips of OLeif’s ice-cold Dr. Pepper?
It was almost a little too good to be true after eighteen bumblebees.
O, White People problems.

And the Cards tied it with the Washington Nationals that afternoon in Game 3 of Spring Training.
No games won yet.
Berkman was slotted for Thursday’s exhibition game against the Red Sox. Good old chap.
She shocked herself for the second time that week and purchased a $1.99 NLDS Game 1 match-up of the Cards against the Phillies.
Just stop it now, Collette, before it’s too late.
Just stop it now.

Who do you think you’re kidding…