by Tom Birdseye
Which, I have to say, isn’t exactly the perfection I have been imagining all this time.
Especially when Dad and Grandpa start arguing again, this time over who will win the World Series.
Vicki rolls her eyes and starts making wisecracks about men.
This, of course, sets TJ off. “Mo-om!”
Quinton, not to be outdone, says to me, “Did you know that in caveman days they used straws as vacuum cleaners?” He demonstrates by sucking pizza crumbs up off the bedspread, then blowing them in my face.
Back home in Oregon it’s no better. True, Grandpa calls almost every day. Or we call him.
Which is nice.
Out of the hospital, he’s staying with Vicki and TJ. Where, according to Vicki, he’s been trying to get Tom Turkey to eat the salty bread—no luck—and supervising the restoration of her breakfast nook, which is driving the workers crazy.
That’s nice, too, if you’re not one of the workers.
But he and Dad disagree on any- and everything, and sometimes Dad hangs up and says he doesn’t know why he even bothers.
Which isn’t exactly the perfection I have been imagining, either.
Still, we are going back to Kentucky for Thanksgiving. And Grandpa is considering coming out to Oregon for Christmas. Plans are in the works for harvesting Grandma Chrissy’s wheat crop next summer, too. And Dad has promised to teach me how to drive the old John Deere.
Best of all, there are three loaves of First Bread in the freezer, and one on the kitchen counter. We finally got the recipe right. (One quarter the salt makes all the difference.)
Holding the old wood-handled bread knife Grandpa gave me, I can feel Grandma Chrissy and Mom beside me, their warm hearts filling the room. I carefully cut slices for Dad, Quinton, and me. Into the toaster they go, and quickly the kitchen and then the whole house fills with that wonderful smell. When the toast pops up, I put it on a plate and serve us all around. A bit of butter spread smooth. We all take deep breaths, then dig in.
“Mmm,” Dad murmurs. “Good bread!”
“Woo-hoo!” says Quinton and whirls out of control, crash-landing in the trash can again.
I smile and take another bite. Perfection? No, but close enough.
About the Author
As a kid, Tom Birdseye was decidedly uninterested in writing—or any academic aspect of school, for that matter—never imagining that he would eventually become a published author. And yet, nineteen titles later—novels, picture books, and nonfiction—that is exactly what has happened. His work has been recognized for its excellence by the International Reading Association, Children’s Book Council, National Council of Social Studies, Society of School Librarians International, Oregon Library Association, and Oregon Reading Association, among others. Combined, his books have either won or been finalists for state children’s choice awards forty-three times. Life, it seems, is full of who’d-a-thought-its. He lives and writes in Corvallis, Oregon, but launches mountaineering expeditions to his beloved Cascades on a regular basis.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2006 by Tom Birdseye
Cover design by Connie Gabbert
ISBN: 978-1-4976-4609-4
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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