Della
Della
I am four and am swinging a yellow bat.
The whiffle ball is headed my way and I simply smash it to the moon. Della, my father’s wife, watches as it sails over her head. There will be no Darryl Strawberry heroics from her for this one. Probably sailed at least 16 feet and I’m running the bases.
We’re at the park and Della’s decided that we should end on a high note, and I was tired. Hated naps back then because kids can be stupid, but I always fell asleep quickly. So, we are walking down a steep hill that only San Francisco, the Seussian city, that my father lives in, would leave without a purple funicular to a pal-alace.
I being made of rubber cement and maybe some chicken wire at the time barrel down the hill at full speed. Della, older and saner, decides to walk like a normal human. I dominate this foot race and am feeling pride for some reason. I must be big, fast. Crushed that ball and beat this lady in a race. What’s next to accomplish?
I’m waiting for Della and the light changes while she’s still mid-hill. I think I hear her yelling to stop, but I cross while the green light shows. Della does not congratulate me for my accomplishment: “Wait til your father gets home.” That sounds fine as we should probably wait for him to talk about the day and how awesome I am.
There’s a long staircase to climb now as we live in a “flat.” “Flats” are “apartments,” but not all “apartments” are “flats.” We were lucky and didn’t have to spell or say apartment and could just use “flat.” Fast and easy.
We open the door and see the landscape copy of Cousin Itt. The dog is happy we are there and because she was jumping up and down, you could tell which end had the face. If you put Penny down on the floor, it’s great as you no longer need an ottoman, which helps as that country isn’t around anymore, I think.
I’m running now into the flat and see the 600-foot Christmas tree that is there. The flat’s ceiling is very high up and the tree’s star just touches the top. Four or five tons of things are on the tree. No organization, just a spectacle of mini-toys and hairy rat ornaments from a fancy store. I’m ignoring the 1,400 toys that are already unwrapped and very, very orderly arranged on the floor.
My dad says I can play with any of these, but I should always return an item to keep order. I don’t care either way, but I love my daddy and that was easy to do.
I’m playing with my favorite this year: a shooting gallery. I place the toy cans on the toy barrels and aim the pistol from the other side. Bang: an air puff from the bottom, if I line up the pistol so the air tubes are connected correctly, the can falls. Some of the cans are damaged. The dog’s fault and Daddy corrected that behavior. You can’t tell a dog much, he says, so you have to rub their noses in it. File that away: [GOOD TO RUB NOSE WHEN COMMUNICATION FAILS]
My daddy comes home, he tells me I should always wait for Della kindly, and we go out to the movies.