Soon, very soon, we will start getting Summer up to make for school. Grandpa has been doing it. It is sort of like throwing yourself on a well-made German grenade, not the Italian ones of movie lore. Only a few minutes now . . . and it will start: “Why can’t that clock move slower . . . School is so boring . . . But I’m still tired,” These are translations of her remarks after they have gone through the venom filter. I think on Career Day they should suggest Summer become a croquet ball quality tester. You know: Give her a mallet and let her whack them outright, “send” them by hitting the ball under her foot hard enough to send the ball resting beside it to kingdom come. See how they hold up, dontcha know.
What am I thinking? Summer with a mallet? We have been that route before. I remember her at three chasing her brother up the basement stairs with one and Mother having to disarm her.
Oh, something new happened . . . she disappointed her grandpa with her temper last night and he let her mother wake her. She came to him complaining, “You didn’t wake me up. Mom yells at me.” And he said, “Well, yes.”
She’s a little quieter now – maybe she’s thinking about it. More likely not; more likely she thinking, “Oh, rats, another chore for me today – charming myself back into his good graces.” Perhaps it will be a little harder than she thinks. (This last sentence was written for you, Grandpa, to help put a little steel in your backbone. Uh, the quick forgiveness thing still will work for ME – the hot tempered, but cuddly little Groverette person, right? . . . . right?)
