116 A little something besides a flyswatter

As Swami Skinrash could have attested, if he’d actually read the Bhagavad Gita . . . if he’d actually heard of the Bhagavad Gita: all things come to the guru.
Granny Guss would conclude: Eggo, all things come to the hero.
“That’s a special reward, little fellow,” admired Ross Valley’s sage and friendly neighbor. Ross Valley was that kind of person, who would invite nearby neighbors for a pertinent celebration, however impromptu. On his lawn the Kentfield elders mingled easily with good young folks like Aunt Kar and the Little League entourage, and the not so young like the Sourpuss Ninja. All were pleased as punch – “No pun intended!” they often said as one, mirth unpeppered with irony – by the luscious lemonade.
“G ‘gj pp g’g’g t!” averred baby Drew, nodding at the other baby, who’d been invited at the behest of _____ _____, so she could quiz him intensively about the arc of spew. She thought perhaps she might play Linda Blair’s role in maturation, flashforward thirty years. ForeverExorcist, Exorzizt, The Exorcist with an power n above the t. If she could persuade David Mamet to write for hire . . .
“I couldn’t have done it without the other guy,” baby Drew meant to say to the wise World War II veteran and codger extraordinaire of the Lagunitas Club tennis courts. But he couldn’t be faulted at two years, ten months of age and almost complete parental neglect for not speaking succinctly. The world wonders whether he could have pronounced his hard g’s if Aunt Kar had not taken an interest in his upbringing.
But the old Ross Valley neighbor seemed to understand, and approved of the demurral.
“A mighty fine trophy, shiny beyond belief – as it should be, for a hero. But I’ve got a little something besides that for you.”
He handed baby Drew a war souvenir, something that had worked well in its time. Incredibly, it worked well now.
“G’g?”
“It’s called a bazooka, little man. Took out some armored vehicles in its day. We called them tanks. Our enemy made them very well . . .”
“That means ‘satisfactorily,'” one of the little San Anselmo baseball fans explained.
The stocky, athletic old neighbor mugged approvingly. Save the oaks, he thought, and save sensible language. “Maybe it’s not to late, before I go,” he thought out loud, “to see the uptick.”
“No pun intended?” asked the little girl respectfully.
“Don’t follow you, little lady.”
“Ticks and oaks go together. Pun kinda . . . I’m sorry!”
“No, no, it’s just I’m surprised . . . glad. I’m learning a lot about kids today.”
“G’g’g’g . . .”
“Yes, young . . . ah, Andrew, is it? Back to the bazooka. And now the Germans are making BMWs very well. I’ll tell you, this bazooka could work wonders on one of those . . .” He laughed at where he was going, and decided to dissipate the heat by making a complete farce of it.
“You could ride shotgun for me, young Guss. When one of those BMWs tailgate me up Goodhill Road, blammo!”
“K’k’k’k’k’k-k-k-k-k-k!” laughed baby Drew, to play along.
The little girl, in the young San Anselman multi-tasking way, laughed and helped baby Drew hoist the bazooka onto his shoulder.
“I’ve got some shells that might still be live,” the kindly neighbor said, adding to the joke.
“Those BMWs are always breaking the law,” laughed the little girl.
Baby Drew’s eyes were stern and vigilant. This, he felt, was seriously funny.
“Bazooka,” he giggled.

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