I don’t really need his input, I know what my kids like, but it was a good ruse to get into his room.
“Blueberry Pop-Tarts,” he mumbles predictably.
It’s an addiction he’s had since he was barely three, when his father introduced him to the sugary pastries.I remember being so pissed at him; I’d tried really hard to keep the boys away from unhealthy, processed foods for as long as I could, but those damn Pop-Tarts derailed that plan.
“And those extra spicy Doritos,” he adds.“Get a couple of bags.”
“Nice try,” I counter.“The reason I let the Pop-Tarts slide is because it’s the only way I can be sure you eat at least something before you head out the door, but you know I don’t like filling the fridge and the pantry with junk or that’s all you guys will eat.”
“One bag?”
This time he actually darts me a cheeky glance, offering me an opportunity I grab with two hands.I sit down on the edge of his bed.
“I’ll tell you what; I’ll get you your bag of extra spicy Doritos if you tell me what is up with suddenly getting a job?”I offer.“I wish you had discussed it with me first.”
“What does it matter?”
“It matters because I’m your parent and am responsible for you.It also matters because you mentioned a few weeks ago your teacher was giving you too much homework and you were having a hard time keeping up.It matters because I need to know where you are.What if something happened to you?”
He snorts.“Nothing’s gonna happen to me, I’m not five.”
“Trust me, I’m well aware, but do you know how many teenagers disappear in the U.S.every year?How many parents are devastated, waiting to hear something, anything, for years and in some cases never do?I’ve had to deliver bad news to parents too many times; I don’t want to be that parent.Something happening to you or your brother is what keeps me awake at night.”
“Mo-om, nothing is going to happen,” he repeats, but his tone has softened.
“Not if I can help it, which is why it is important I know where you are.Give me that.At least while you live under my roof.”
“Fine,” he concedes, but not without rolling his eyes.
Then he ducks his head when I lean over, but I manage to press a kiss in his messy hair, before getting off the bed.
“Get dressed.It’s your turn to unload the groceries when I get home.”
“Whatever.”
Clem
The only thingI miss about my old house is outdoor space.
The backyard was no bigger than a postage stamp and rather sad-looking and overgrown, but I could sit outside on a nice day with my feet up on the railing of my ramshackle deck, and enjoy a cold one.
My only option at the firehouse on a nice fall day like today—a little crisp, but the sun is out—is open the large bay door and let the outside in.The tires I have stacked right by the entrance make for a fairly decent seat, while I enjoy my beer and what could be some of the last warm rays of sunshine before temperatures drop as we head into winter.
I spent the day doing my normal household chores, stuff I don’t really have time for when the garage is open for business.It doesn’t take me that long to throw in a load of laundry, give the upstairs a quick clean, and go out to grab supplies for the week, but I ran into Roy Battaglia.He owns a security company and I wanted to pick his brain about installing some security.
That little incident with the kid Friday night got me thinking, maybe it’s time to invest in a couple of flood lights, cameras, that kind of thing.It’s sad that like everywhere else, our small town is not immune to crime anymore.
Roy came over, had a look around to see what I would need, and said he’d work out the numbers and let me know what the bottom line would be.
He just left, and I decided to come out here with a beer to enjoy what’s left of my Sunday.
The parking lot doesn’t make for a great view, but it’s clear enough to see the mountains on the far side of town.I grab a handful of pistachios from the bag I picked up at the grocery store this morning.I shell them and toss them in my mouth one by one, taking a sip of beer every so often.
I like keeping my hands busy, otherwise I wouldn’t be able to sit still for more than a minute or two.I was driving myself nuts after the old shop burned down and had nothing to keep me busy.I spent way too much time scrolling mindlessly through my Facebook feed, looking at reels, sometimes hours at a time.That’s where I bumped into a video of this guy, a veteran who described suffering from restlessness and anxiety since trying to return to civilian life.He’d taken up crocheting and said as long as his hands were busy, his mind could settle down.
I ended up watching a bunch of the instructional videos he posted, figured I could probably do it.Amazon turned out to be a welcome source for supplies which were dropped off in an anonymous box.It was worth trying, and I wound up really enjoying the almost mindless rhythm that keeps my hands occupied.
However, I’m not about to sit out here in full view of the town, crocheting my next afghan.I’d never live it down.My new hobby will remain my private business, which is why I’m out here, shelling pistachios instead.
