On the way to school, I asked how things were going. Cailan told me he had asked a classmate out on a date, visions of revels and masques animating his vision. Then it came to him that his reasons for doing so were selfish. Cailan decided that it wasn’t so much he liked her, as he wanted to let the other guys know he had a girlfriend.
I thought it was a fine piece of deduction on his part, age 12. I told him the story of Janet Atwater. In 7th grade, I was eager to have a steady girl-friend; and therefore flesh out my credentials as a very cool dude. So I called Janet, a girl whom I had never met. Once on the phone, after the fashion of arranged marriages, I asked her to go steady. She, never having met me, felt this would be a fine idea. Such are the societal pressures of that age group. As it turns out, my father overheard my conversation. Adolescent urge collided with parental propriety. He said, “Two ways you’ll go steady, son: no way and no how.” Wrapped that up.
…
Spook likes to sit with me, and I don’t know why.
Sabrina and I obtained her from the SPCA. She was sick, temperature 104 degrees; too weak to feed her three un-weaned, sickly kittens. So Sabrina and I fed them and tended Spook. One of her babies died. We came to check on Spook one morning, the storming fever had left her eyes; she was nursing two kittens and protecting the dead one with her paw.
We fostered out her two babies in their time, but Spook stayed. I sit in my easy chair reading; she walks up quietly. She looks at me; I shove over, and she hops into the protective trough created between me and stuffed arm of the chair. I read and rub; she sleeps on her back with her pink tongue-tip sticking out. “She trusts you, Gahv. She loves you. The only place she feels secure is in your chair.” I take Sabrina’s word for it. I guess it’s true, it’s just hard to imagine. I’ve never done all that much for her. Maybe I’ve just been chosen. Cats do that, you know. Hard to know why, and I doubt study would make the matter more clear.
But Sabrina has another theory: I have a small behind; it’s a wonder my pants stay up. When I sit in a chair, the left-over is perfect for Spook. So I read while Spook snoozes. Symbiotic.
…
Son Chester recently threw out a dozen perfectly good pair of boxer shorts. They were plain white. He then purchased a dozen replacements of various socially-approved patterns and shades. By the exacting calibrations of the dress code which rules Ches’ world, there’s no shame in walking around with your underwear showing, as long as it’s not white underwear. It’s a fairly complicated system actually; you gotta stay focused.
…
My daughter, Erin, [re-named `Herculette’ by a fan] has completed a trek that would have put me in Intensive Care for an indeterminate stay. From Canada to New Mexico in sixty days, cycling; the first woman to complete the Continental Divide Trail. Needless to say, when she got home, there was much for us to talk about.
Erin is an enthusiastic, interesting individual. Put her in a room with twenty other young women and you’d never pick her out as having the fiber for such an ordeal. She’s too friendly. She laughs out of sheer enjoyment more than anyone I know, young or old. Once I asked her, out of the blue, “Are you happy, baby?” She laughed and said, “Sure! Why shouldn’t I be?” There’s the stuff of a dozen sermons in that response.
Interestingly, there’s nothing squint-eyed or square-jawed about Erin… even in competition. She plays no games, doesn’t waltz with her ego; she simply is herself; a claim many make, but few live up to.
There is a wisdom in her that I admire, unenunciated and nowhere written down. It’s within her, and it didn’t take her the better part of her life and immeasurable experiences to accumulate it [as opposed to yours truly, harumph, harumph!]. No endless series of trial and error relationships.
…
Years ago, son Ches had a close call. Like most others his age, he spends the better part of each day on the internet. He regrets the time he fritters away breathing, showering, brushing his teeth, and the like. Periodically, he does exercise: he comes down stairs for a Pepsi and a Honey Bun.
The other day we heard a crash. Sabrina and I rushed to his room to find him on the floor beside his computer staring at the ceiling talking Italian. Sabrina looked at me – her husband the physician – `What’s wrong?’
I broke it to her gently. “On-line fatigue.”
“Are you sure?”
I pointed to the joint swelling on the index finger of his right hand. “Mouse Knuckle.”
He began to stir.
“Oh, thank God!” Sabrina said.
Ches croaked hoarsely, “How long…?”
“How long have you been unconscious?”
“Before I can get back on line?”
“Soon.”
“Prop me up. I haven’t talked to my friends for what? minutes now.”
“Lots could have happened.”
That all occurred a few days ago. We got a brief e-mail from his bedroom that assured us all was well. But, I’ve got to go now. He just hollered down and asked if I would bring him a few Twinkies. He’s got to keep his strength up.
– Lucky Garvin