On Saturdays, the unbearable heat of Arkansas summer. The entire neighborhood perfumed with smells of laundry soap and bacon. He is always the last of everyone to wake up. He has a "fashionably late entrance" routine--he stomps barefoot down the hall toward the kitchen, each footfall reverberating off the walls (still stained with soot from the 1978 fire)... "FEEEE FIIIII FOOOOO FUUUUMMM!" We scream- he's coming, he's coming! Or s
ome days, he changes things up by singing at the top of his lungs as he stomps down the hall, "OOOOOOOOOOOO Sole MIIIIIII-OOOOOOOOOOO" (it's my own sun/that's against your face). More screams. He's in the kitchen now. He says, always, always, always, "Anybody get the number of that truck?" It's a one-man show just for us, a routine he perfects over and over every Saturday. A routine we wait in anticipation for from the moment of crawling out of bed. And then he stretches and yowls like Rip Van Winkle has woken from his exquisitely-long nap. We climb on him like he's a jungle gym, chanting "pancakes! pancakes! pancakes!" He speciality is Mickey Mouse ear-shaped pancakes, or the letter of our first name. I receive a hot buttered "A." The tiny air conditioning unit whines in the window. Butter melts in the heat, dripping onto the counter. It's the kind of morning you think will last forever.
ome days, he changes things up by singing at the top of his lungs as he stomps down the hall, "OOOOOOOOOOOO Sole MIIIIIII-OOOOOOOOOOO" (it's my own sun/that's against your face). More screams. He's in the kitchen now. He says, always, always, always, "Anybody get the number of that truck?" It's a one-man show just for us, a routine he perfects over and over every Saturday. A routine we wait in anticipation for from the moment of crawling out of bed. And then he stretches and yowls like Rip Van Winkle has woken from his exquisitely-long nap. We climb on him like he's a jungle gym, chanting "pancakes! pancakes! pancakes!" He speciality is Mickey Mouse ear-shaped pancakes, or the letter of our first name. I receive a hot buttered "A." The tiny air conditioning unit whines in the window. Butter melts in the heat, dripping onto the counter. It's the kind of morning you think will last forever. 
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