Him: “Looove your wild, plaid poncho!”
He is shepherding his two wiggly small people into their way-too-big mini-van; one of whom, the smaller, has dashed out behind the car between our cars–the driver trying to back out of her space, thankfully aware of the dasher, who has been dragged back by his father to the van. The other small, a girl, about six, is not misbehaving, and seems to know how not to be naughty. She climbs in and buckles herself, competent and quick.
“Thank you!” I reply, waving a hand, sweeping behind the steering wheel as my two teens (mine and her guest) ready to nap on the rainy drive home. They are fed. Now they sleep. Big babies without the car seats.
The dasher is suddenly flinging about the lot in the light rain. His father lurches to haul him back.
“HORACE!!!” And the father — slim, 30s, brown collegiately-messy slightly professorial hair with side part, in jeans and European looking jacket, latches onto the boy’s arm. There is much squirming and squealing, reminding me of how our dog (also three-ish but with two less legs) thinks ‘come inside’ is an invitation to run away and leap all over the backyard. Father clicks the imp into his cushiony perch-with-belt and begins a light but dictatorial lecture.
“Now, Horace? …Holiday…?” This is when my teens quietly chime in about the significance of names and what possesses people to identify others so uniquely. I roll up my window and head west. One likes “Horace”, one likes “Holiday”. We think of other “H” names that would be rare and less-than-playground-common.
Our favorites were “Helium”, “Happenstance”, “Hummingbird”, “Hatch”, “Herse”, and “Halitosis”.
Horace and Holiday, finally tamed.