Personal Narrative: Chute-And-Pucker Cherry Pie?

CHAPTER TWELVE
Chute-and-Pucker Cherry Pie

Mason was hoping for more fireworks. A band. Or at least a few lame red-white-and-blue sparks, but the only welcoming committee was my dog, Norbert and a trespassing chipmunk who was wobbling precariously across a limb with a seed. My dog raced back and forth in front of the tree galloping like a crazed miniature pony. His unruly pointed tail knocked the heads off dandelions and tore up the grass. He growled, raised his hackles and I grabbed his collar. “Norbert, hush and go inside.” His ears flattened and he sulked away, whining.
Behind us twigs cracked and leaves rustled. I turned to see my dad step from behind the tree.
“There you are. It’s so hot the hens are laying hard-boiled eggs.” He laughed. “Makes me

“Yesterday I watched my neighbor pull a baked potato right out of the ground.”
“Ah, that’s a good one, son,” Dad said, beckoning us with his finger. He led us to the barn. When he opened the enormous red doors, it smelled like sweet hay and leather.
“Come on,” he insisted. “I have a surprise for you.”
My eyes widened. “Inside?”
“Yeah.” He pointed to a set of spectacles. “Look.”
Grandpa sat on a bale of hay, next to a black-and-white cow with his arm folded across the front of his faded coveralls.
“Grandpa but—” I ran toward him.
He grinned and bear-hugged me, and I hugged him back as hard as his ancient bones could bear.
“But nothing, kid.” He smiled. “You think a little bump on the head is going to keep this old stodgiest codger down? I don’t think so. I’m too mean to die. And, Mason, get your sorry hind end over here.” He hugged him, too. Mason didn’t even seem to mind when Grandpa rubbed his knuckles on his head and hollered, “Noogie.”
“Welcome home, Gramps.” Mason said, and then his cell chirped, so he sat down on a bucket, dug the phone out of his pocket and flipped it open. “Chores.” He rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you tomorrow, bro. Early.