here we go. The whirlwind begins. The Jean-Louisecyclone of transformation. Without her I’d molder away. And eat more candy.
I pull out another chocolate and place it on my tongue.
Mr. Moore offers me his little wave. I shut the car door and run over.
“Thanks for that fish the other day. Your brother cooks up a fine halibut.”
“He sure does. How’s the arthritis?”
“Oh, it has its good days and its bad days. The bad days I just put ‘eat popcorn and ’watch old movies’ on my list of chores, and it suits me just fine.”
“I need to remember that. Adjust my to-do list to fit my needs.”
“That sure is right. Makes for a lot less trouble, in my view.”
“I think you’re onto something there.”
And my next column begins.
When I was little, eight times out of ten we didn’t shut the car door rightly.
“Mom, the car door’s not shut tight!” we’d yell.
And Mom would slow down a bit, just a bit, mind you, and we’d open the car door, feel the slight thrill of fear as the asphalt whizzed by beneath our gaze and the road line blinked on and off like a neon beer sign. Then we’d heave with all our might, ensuring a fully engaged latch, and we’d sit back in our seat without a seat belt holding us in.
We possessed good reflexes back then. One slight tip of thebrakes, and both hands and one foot automatically found their way to the seat back or dashboard in front of us. Yep, mighty good reflexes.
They stand me in good stead right now as I place a hand on Persy’s chest and curve my arm around his waist as he walks by my kitchen chair. “You are not going for the candy bowl, bud.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh yes you were. Get a granola bar from the drawer.”
“Okay.” He swings his head down and turns from my arms.
“Hey, at least there’s sugar in it.”
My son could ingest five pounds of sugar at a sitting and still want more. I know he gets it from me, and who knows what else he’s inherited from the Starlings? Poor kid.
A granola bar. Yep, we’re not living in the same old world, folks.
5
S chool’s out for summer! That’s my anthem right now, despite its birth in the bloodstained mouth of Alice Can-You-Believe-He’s-a-Minister’s-Son Cooper. Now I ask you, how in the world does
that
happen? An aside to those with theological knowledge: if cases like these don’t furnish you with a full belief in total depravity, I don’t know what does!
My church sure had a lot to say about Alice Cooper, let me tell you! He was going to turn all the teenagers of America into satanic minions. And where is he now? I’m sure VH1 assembled a
Behind the Music
on that guy, but I haven’t seen it yet, even though—and I hate to admit it—I’m quite fond of the show. That, and
I Love the 80s
. But God didn’t let him go. He’s rocking hard and praying hard these days. And I’m not about to tell him he can’t do both.
No one anticipates the end of the school year more than I do. Of course, for two and a half months my house deteriorates faster than a pop princess’s reputation. Nutrition hides under a rock, and the television? Well, let’s just say all motherly intentions go the way of nutrition. But so will sports games, school projects, permission slips, and my inability to say no to room-mothers’ requests for cookies on a stick, planning the Valentine’s party, or sitting the class rat or goldfish for the weekend. They claim to teach the kids responsibility, but who ends up feeding the darn animals—or buying a twin replacement?
And Rusty’s coming home. When push comes to shove, I do still love the guy. I made a promise all those years ago. A fact of which I’m painfully aware.
Some writer, probably Shakespeare, said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” So I’ve got a little work to do before his plane lands. God, help me be a great actress. Even if only for the kids’ sake. Knowing Rusty, he’ll disembark and say the right thing, and I’ll truly be glad
I pull out another chocolate and place it on my tongue.
Mr. Moore offers me his little wave. I shut the car door and run over.
“Thanks for that fish the other day. Your brother cooks up a fine halibut.”
“He sure does. How’s the arthritis?”
“Oh, it has its good days and its bad days. The bad days I just put ‘eat popcorn and ’watch old movies’ on my list of chores, and it suits me just fine.”
“I need to remember that. Adjust my to-do list to fit my needs.”
“That sure is right. Makes for a lot less trouble, in my view.”
“I think you’re onto something there.”
And my next column begins.
When I was little, eight times out of ten we didn’t shut the car door rightly.
“Mom, the car door’s not shut tight!” we’d yell.
And Mom would slow down a bit, just a bit, mind you, and we’d open the car door, feel the slight thrill of fear as the asphalt whizzed by beneath our gaze and the road line blinked on and off like a neon beer sign. Then we’d heave with all our might, ensuring a fully engaged latch, and we’d sit back in our seat without a seat belt holding us in.
We possessed good reflexes back then. One slight tip of thebrakes, and both hands and one foot automatically found their way to the seat back or dashboard in front of us. Yep, mighty good reflexes.
They stand me in good stead right now as I place a hand on Persy’s chest and curve my arm around his waist as he walks by my kitchen chair. “You are not going for the candy bowl, bud.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Oh yes you were. Get a granola bar from the drawer.”
“Okay.” He swings his head down and turns from my arms.
“Hey, at least there’s sugar in it.”
My son could ingest five pounds of sugar at a sitting and still want more. I know he gets it from me, and who knows what else he’s inherited from the Starlings? Poor kid.
A granola bar. Yep, we’re not living in the same old world, folks.
5
S chool’s out for summer! That’s my anthem right now, despite its birth in the bloodstained mouth of Alice Can-You-Believe-He’s-a-Minister’s-Son Cooper. Now I ask you, how in the world does
that
happen? An aside to those with theological knowledge: if cases like these don’t furnish you with a full belief in total depravity, I don’t know what does!
My church sure had a lot to say about Alice Cooper, let me tell you! He was going to turn all the teenagers of America into satanic minions. And where is he now? I’m sure VH1 assembled a
Behind the Music
on that guy, but I haven’t seen it yet, even though—and I hate to admit it—I’m quite fond of the show. That, and
I Love the 80s
. But God didn’t let him go. He’s rocking hard and praying hard these days. And I’m not about to tell him he can’t do both.
No one anticipates the end of the school year more than I do. Of course, for two and a half months my house deteriorates faster than a pop princess’s reputation. Nutrition hides under a rock, and the television? Well, let’s just say all motherly intentions go the way of nutrition. But so will sports games, school projects, permission slips, and my inability to say no to room-mothers’ requests for cookies on a stick, planning the Valentine’s party, or sitting the class rat or goldfish for the weekend. They claim to teach the kids responsibility, but who ends up feeding the darn animals—or buying a twin replacement?
And Rusty’s coming home. When push comes to shove, I do still love the guy. I made a promise all those years ago. A fact of which I’m painfully aware.
Some writer, probably Shakespeare, said, “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” So I’ve got a little work to do before his plane lands. God, help me be a great actress. Even if only for the kids’ sake. Knowing Rusty, he’ll disembark and say the right thing, and I’ll truly be glad
Similar Books
