Friday, November 28, 2008

Smoke Signals

Our son ran away from home before he was five. I helped him pack a going away bag. He was gone for a few hours. He never told what irked him. Probably too many females in the house. After we moved to Diablo he had three of the cutest playmates across the street. And three of the naughtiest boys, you will ever want to meet. They and their new play mate committed arson. They raided peoples garages looking for a chicken in the freezers. They somehow knew which package contained a chicken and were not careful about returning the steaks and lamb-chops to the freezer. After finding what they were looking for they lit a fire in a culvert on the golf course and tried to barbecue their catch. Our son was in his indian suit as he came home, rushing into the house, through the living room, into his room. I had a few friends for afternoon coffee and they all laughed and said 'he's in a hurry'

And then we heard the fire engine. And then a thin whiff of smoke reached my nostrils. And then I knew. I ran into the Indian's room, grabbed his arm and ran to where the firemen were working. Everybody thought, How cute! The talking to of the four boys was much to easy and as far as I could see had no consequences for the three neighbors. Ours was forbidden to play with them and was campused for a week.

2 comments:

figgie1 said...

My husband and I joke about such serious natures as death, divorce, affairs, etc. Although it's morbid, I believe it makes the relationship stronger. I'm happy to see that other couples joke about such things. It makes me feel like we're more of a "normal" couple, if there is such a thing.

ihatefog said...

Hi, I have been reading your blog since Shreve mentioned it in HER Daily Coyote blog.I look forward so much to your daily postings that I have withdrawals if I open it and there are no new postings. My grandmother was Swedish and Norwegian and spent all of her adult life in San Francisco, and I grew up in Livermore, so I absolutely love reading about your life when you moved to California. (My grandmother's mother was Swedish and her father was Norwegian, and they met in Hawaii, of all places. My grandfather went on to become a cooper in St Helena, and made the huge wine barrels out of oak that the wineries in that area used).I enjoy your writing style so much. Thank you!!!!! Eleanor Anderson (ihatefog@yahoo.com)