The Dancing Pancake

I am on the front lawn making snow angels with Albert Poole.  

This is what I like about Albert: He's not afraid to do "girly" things. He'll bake cookies as quick as toss a football.  

He'll tend the African violets in his grandmother's front window as tenderly as a mama cat tends her kittens.  

He likes to shop!  

What I don't like about Albert is this: He talks about bugs all the time. All. The. Time. He can tell you anything you want to know about horseflies or houseflies or dung beetles or cockroaches.  

And me--? I can tell you most anything you want to know about Albert Poole or classic books or the film The Wizard of Oz.  

My dad is outside, too. He is dumping two suitcases into the trunk of his car.  

I sort of hear him backing out of our driveway and driving off, but I'm not watching. Why should I? Albert Poole and I have snow angels to make, and besides, my father is simply driving to a different city to find a new job. That's all.   That's what he said.  

That's what Mom said.  

That's what they both said.  

C'mon, Albert! You have to flap your legs and arms at the same time.