Shirley

Not Chill Enough About done browsing, Thursday at Gift & Thrift, I spied Towering Grandboy —oh, and Mom, too. Grandboy’s summer job ahead, he had to get clothes. While he tried on shirts in a fitting room, the clipboard lady keeping track, Mom and I stood by the women’s racks and yapped. Other shoppers wandered past, no doubt overhearing but politely keeping any thoughts to themselves (C an’t those two just shut up? ). At one point, Grandboy’s head peering over the fitting-room door gave me quite the start. Usually a person must talk through the wood to get someone else’s attention, or if they want to see what’s going on in the world, push the door open. His sky height , Grandboy had only to put his head in the transom-like gap above the door. The shirts needed to at least reach his waist. Across the chest they couldn’t squeeze his pectorals. Each selection, he’d step forth, Mom’d give him the once-over and make her snap judgment, and he’d again retreat behind the door. She was...

Grandboy Age 12, or In the Time of Peonies   He was calling on his mother’s phone. He wanted to come over. “You know it’s just me,” I said. “Yes,” he said. “I’ll have to get you in the truck,” I said. My husband had taken the car to Pennsylvania. “Yes,” he said. “I know.” He didn’t say what he planned to do. Just play, I guess. Maybe eat my food. Plus he always likes to talk. So down the lane I chugged to fetch him, Buster along, even though it’s shedding season and his fur has been coming off in clumps. We used to worry about him throwing up if we drove him places, but now my husband hauls him along when he goes over to hoe in Boy’s garden. Buster just runs around on the seat and pants like mad and goes on high alert whenever he sees cows. I kept the windows rolled pretty high. I didn’t want him bailing. Now, I hate the truck. I hate it, hate it, hate it. I can hardly get in and out, for one thing. The floorboard is so distant from the ground, I always have to strain for...