When I wake up, Mom's already awake. Not terribly uncommon, nor is the fact that she's singing. Off-key and off-beat, with words she's substituting in that fit her mood. She can sing pretty, but she doesn't usually make the effort.
I emerge from my bedroom swaddled against the morning crispness in a robe and slippers. My hair is wreaking revenge for the fact that I teased it for last night's game, and is currently smashed on one side and billowing out the other. It looks like a drunken steeple that's lilting off the side of my head. I make my way to the kitchen, where Mom is standing at the counter, washing dishes. She's also in her pajamas--embarrassingly a Hello Kitty set with matching robe and slippers. As though she were fifteen and not forty-five. I'm about to comment when I see the Thermos waiting patiently on the counter to be washed. I look at the calendar. That's right; it's the Duck Races.
The Duck Races are a local milestone, the first event of autumn. The Rotary Club sells tickets for two months beforehand, five dollars apiece. Each ticket gets you one yellow rubber duck. All the ducks with your ticket numbers on them are loaded into a huge Dumpster, lifted over the frigid Columbia River via crane, and then unloaded into the water. The ducks float down-current, and the first few to cross the finish line win their owners sweet prizes. The prizes are donated by local businesses, and the money goes to charity, but it's the event to be at. Everyone is there, newly swaddled in light jackets and scarves, maybe even a hat and mittens if the October morning is bleak enough. There are vendors and games and about a million kids running around, their hands and faces sticky with cotton candy and candy apples and whatever else they can get their parents' wallets to open up for. The weather today looks bright and crisp, though the weather man was forecasting highs in the upper seventies last night. The sky is immaculately clear, and reminds me of a stained glass window that the sun is pressing up against.
"I got this Thermos for five dollars at the Value Village before you were even born," Mom says when she sees I'm up. She cradles it like Vanna White displaying the latest prize on the Wheel of Fortune. I've heard the story a million times, and while it grates to hear it every year, I love that Thermos. It's full of good memories, and promises of moments of my family spending time together. My mom busts it out for Duck Races and puts it away after Easter every year. In between time, it's seen at football games, the Winter Carnival, the Christmas Boat Parade, the Christmas Eve bonfire that my parents host every year, and myriad events in between. I can't help the grin that splits my face as I lean up to kiss her on the cheek.
"I'm gonna go shower and get ready," I say. "This is the year my duck's gonna win."
"Good, because we could use a new firepit for Christmas Eve," she counters, then returns to washing dishes.
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