My daughter texts me yesterday with a weird ass list of stuff that might be edible for my last grand-whelping tour. I texted back that I’d just pick up Thai food. The whelp has a delicate flower of a tummy so I picked up chicken satay for him, and this ginger Thai dish for myself and for my daughter. The chatty Thai matron asked about grandchildren, it’s possible she is a spy. I almost got an extra piece of satay for the granddaughter except I explained how she was in Oregon. The matron repeated Oregon. I didn’t correct her mispronunciation; it was a sweet mispronunciation, not the typical Ory gone.
When he got home (the last few months he has preferred walking to being picked up) he mumbled something and went into his room. After about an hour I asked if he was ok, I had sort of assumed he was processing. He came out all apologetic realizing it was the last time we’d see each other in a while and asked if I wanted to play catch. Most of his stuff was packed. There was a half inflated football so we took that outside.
After a few minutes these three other kids who were running around screaming asked if they could play. Well, sort of. The pushy little boy did. The bigger, older, quieter boy just came along. I suspect they were brothers and he was used to protecting the little one. A minute or two later this grubby girl came along. The little kid divvied up teams.
“We’re just playing catch” I said.
“Ok,” the little kid said “Then you get her. She’s mean.”
“Shut up,” the little girl said “Or I’ll poke you stick.”
“Not again!”
The pushy little kid on every throw yelled “Mine!” or “Let me throw it!” and invariably missed or threw only half the distance. The little girl always told me “I’ll get it”.
The little girl wrapped her tiny fingers around the stitching and though she didn’t throw much better than the little boy she threw perfect spirals. When the little kid complained that she threw like a girl I told him she was throwing well and he’d throw better if he wrapped his fingers around the stitches.
“I’m a tomboy,” the little girl explained under her golden storm of girl hair and dirt on her high cheekbones. In ten years that little boy will give up ten years of his life for her just to say hi to him. The grand whelp started looking exasperated so I told the kids we were going for a walk.
“Can we come?” asked the pushy little kid.
“No,” I said.
“I have a Frisbee.”
“Good,” I said.
Grandwhelp and I went for a walk to Valhalla, you shut up, it’s the name of the park. Why? Who are you asking? We stomped around in the woods, talking, crunching on snow. Yeah it’s been melting but there was a lot of it so the places it was plowed too still are fairly thick. We talked about stuff. Daughter came home, we took the dogs out, I hugged the boy and wished him safe travels.
I grabbed the mail when I came home. There was an odd shaped package for my dad. The American Legion sent him a knife. My mom had signed him up for the American Legion hoping they might help him with VA benefits. I’m thinking they don’t get many WW II vets these days. I politely asked my mom if I could have it. She took a moment or two. Heh. I suggested I’d just bring it to my dad. They did have the right branch of the service on it, I mean for him; Navy. It’s a pretty serious knife. I don’t think he’d hurt himself with it, I don’t think he’d be able to get it open or be interested in getting it open.
Other things probably happened. It’s gray and cold outdoors. I went on an errand this morning, the rain ceased for a minute to be hail then resumed the rain in progress.
Be nice to one another or I know a little girl who will poke you with a stick. Again.
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