a breath over her loose dentures. “Well, well, well,” she said. “Bet you’re the apple of your momma’s eye.”
Oliver watched her, his head tipped slightly to one side. “What’s your name?”
“May Werner.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Auntie May. Now, I need you to write out a story. Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? How old are you?”
“Eight years and eleven months.”
Auntie May chortled. “Still young enough for months to matter. Ha! Can you write a half decent sentence?” He nodded. “Then you’re my boy.” She slapped him on the shoulder and he rocked back on his heels.
“But I don’t have a notebook,” he said, recovering his balance. “Or a pen. Or the questions.”
“Patooties, that’s not a problem.” She glanced around. “Judy, Beth. Get this young man what he needs. There’s a story to be told.”
“Last week you said you didn’t need your story written out,” Judy said. “What changed your mind?”
“Who said we’re talking about my story?” Auntie May cackled and thumped Oliver on the shoulder again. “This gentleman’s going to be writing the biography of my friend Maude.” She twisted her head around and looked behind her.
For the first time, I noticed that someone had come into the room behind Auntie May. Someone with apple cheeks and snow white hair. Someone with a lace-trimmed handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her pink cardigan.
“Now, May,” she said. “There’s no need to browbeat people. You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, you know.”
Auntie May made a snorting noise of disgust, but didn’t say anything; Maude smiled like a cherub might if it were a female octogenarian in a wheelchair, and Judy and I looked at each other and nodded. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.
* * *
That night at dinner, there were two parallel conversations. In my left ear, I was hearing a minute-by-minute recap of Jenna’s first hockey lesson. In my right ear, I heard Oliver’s interpretation of his first visit with Maude Hoffman.
“Mom, you wouldn’t believe how fast Coach Sweeney is. He has skates made just for him. Do you think if I got my own skates made I’d be able to go faster?”
“Mom, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1825. That’s really, really old, isn’t it?”
I swallowed a bite of pork chop. “Jenna, you play goalie. You don’t need to skate like Coach Sweeney. And Oliver, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1925, not 1825.”
They blew past my motherly comments.
“Yeah,” Jenna said, “but maybe really good skates would make me a better goalie.”
“Being born in 1925 is still really old,” Oliver said. “I bet Mrs. Hoffman is one of the oldest people in the world!”
I speared a piece of broccoli. Eddie Sweeney played in the National Hockey League for the Minnesota Wild, but he’d had a knee injury and hadn’t played since January. His NHL contract allowed him to give clinics, and the first Sweeney Youth Hockey Workshop was here in Rynwood.
Jenna had been overjoyed that one of her heroes was coming to her town. “That means we’re special, right?” she’d asked. I didn’t tell my daughter that the determining factor for Sweeney’s decision was probably the cheap ice time at Rynwood’s Agnes Mephisto Memorial Ice Arena.
Oliver was waiting for a response to his statement. “Not many people get to be as old as Mrs. Hoffman,” I said. “But there are people who are older. Auntie May, for one.”
“She’s mean,” Jenna said.
“Take one, please.” I held out the tray of fresh vegetables. “Why do you think she’s mean?”
Jenna scrunched her face, took the smallest piece of carrot on the plate, and waved it around. “She’s got this big high voice that goes right through you, you know? And this one time Bailey and I were on the sidewalk and she just starts yelling at us for no reason.”
When Bailey was involved, “no reason” could involve anything from
Oliver watched her, his head tipped slightly to one side. “What’s your name?”
“May Werner.” She held out her hand. “But you can call me Auntie May. Now, I need you to write out a story. Can you do that?”
“I think so.”
“You think so? How old are you?”
“Eight years and eleven months.”
Auntie May chortled. “Still young enough for months to matter. Ha! Can you write a half decent sentence?” He nodded. “Then you’re my boy.” She slapped him on the shoulder and he rocked back on his heels.
“But I don’t have a notebook,” he said, recovering his balance. “Or a pen. Or the questions.”
“Patooties, that’s not a problem.” She glanced around. “Judy, Beth. Get this young man what he needs. There’s a story to be told.”
“Last week you said you didn’t need your story written out,” Judy said. “What changed your mind?”
“Who said we’re talking about my story?” Auntie May cackled and thumped Oliver on the shoulder again. “This gentleman’s going to be writing the biography of my friend Maude.” She twisted her head around and looked behind her.
For the first time, I noticed that someone had come into the room behind Auntie May. Someone with apple cheeks and snow white hair. Someone with a lace-trimmed handkerchief tucked into the sleeve of her pink cardigan.
“Now, May,” she said. “There’s no need to browbeat people. You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, you know.”
Auntie May made a snorting noise of disgust, but didn’t say anything; Maude smiled like a cherub might if it were a female octogenarian in a wheelchair, and Judy and I looked at each other and nodded. Maybe, just maybe, this would work out.
* * *
That night at dinner, there were two parallel conversations. In my left ear, I was hearing a minute-by-minute recap of Jenna’s first hockey lesson. In my right ear, I heard Oliver’s interpretation of his first visit with Maude Hoffman.
“Mom, you wouldn’t believe how fast Coach Sweeney is. He has skates made just for him. Do you think if I got my own skates made I’d be able to go faster?”
“Mom, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1825. That’s really, really old, isn’t it?”
I swallowed a bite of pork chop. “Jenna, you play goalie. You don’t need to skate like Coach Sweeney. And Oliver, Mrs. Hoffman was born in 1925, not 1825.”
They blew past my motherly comments.
“Yeah,” Jenna said, “but maybe really good skates would make me a better goalie.”
“Being born in 1925 is still really old,” Oliver said. “I bet Mrs. Hoffman is one of the oldest people in the world!”
I speared a piece of broccoli. Eddie Sweeney played in the National Hockey League for the Minnesota Wild, but he’d had a knee injury and hadn’t played since January. His NHL contract allowed him to give clinics, and the first Sweeney Youth Hockey Workshop was here in Rynwood.
Jenna had been overjoyed that one of her heroes was coming to her town. “That means we’re special, right?” she’d asked. I didn’t tell my daughter that the determining factor for Sweeney’s decision was probably the cheap ice time at Rynwood’s Agnes Mephisto Memorial Ice Arena.
Oliver was waiting for a response to his statement. “Not many people get to be as old as Mrs. Hoffman,” I said. “But there are people who are older. Auntie May, for one.”
“She’s mean,” Jenna said.
“Take one, please.” I held out the tray of fresh vegetables. “Why do you think she’s mean?”
Jenna scrunched her face, took the smallest piece of carrot on the plate, and waved it around. “She’s got this big high voice that goes right through you, you know? And this one time Bailey and I were on the sidewalk and she just starts yelling at us for no reason.”
When Bailey was involved, “no reason” could involve anything from
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