The Search for Macadamia, a Quest Most Noble

CHAPTER 2 - OF NUTS AND NAMES

It was May, four years back, when his dad had moved out. The next week Spencer found a broken-down Harry Houdini pinball machine at a garage sale on the next block. He was allowed to roam between home and his elementary school-no farther. His mom had thought the restriction would keep the near eight-year-old out of mischief. He had run home and returned to the garage sale with enough Christmas and birthday cash to buy it.

"It's a big project. You sure your parents are okay with this?" the seller asked.

Spencer expertly avoided a direct answer to the question. "It's perfect."

The seller delivered it a week later when Spencer's mom was at work. She wasn't pleased.

That summer his dad had come over every weekend to work on the game with Spencer. Together they returned it to mint condition. Spencer shopped online for the replacement parts and did almost all the wrench work-under his dad's supervision. His dad was in charge of interpreting the maintenance manual. Splitting the work like that slowed things down, which meant more time with his dad.

Playing the game wasn't very much fun. That December, Spencer sold the rebuilt machine to his dad's company for a nice profit. It's in their break room even today.

Spencer and Evie arrived in the workshop just as his dad pulled out a round steel disc about the size of a nickel hanging on a striped ribbon. "Look at this."

The words 2009 Detroit Tigers & Daniel Dogs curved around the edge. The middle bragged 50 Years of Franks. The other side had a hot dog superimposed over a baseball diamond.

"What is it?" Spencer asked.

"It's a medal. Got it a few years ago, just before your granddad died. They were handing these out at a Tigers game we went to."

"A medal? For going to a game you didn't even play in?"

"We deserved medals just for sitting through it. So boring. You want it?"

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I wouldn't give this to an eleven-year-old, but since you're twelve now . . ." He hung it around Spencer's neck. "But that's not what I'm looking for." His dad shoved stuff around in the box, searching.

"Actually," Spencer said, "the day you're born is the first day of your first year, and since-"

"The day your mom birthed you."

Spencer's eyes shifted curiously. "What?"

"Give your mom some credit. You weren't just born. It's not magic. It's a lot of work. Your mom birthed you. Say it right."

"The first day of my first year was the day Mom birthed me."

"Perfect."

"That sounds gross."

"You've no idea how right you are," his dad said, still rummaging. "You know who has it easy? Chickens. Now say it like you're a mother hen."

Spencer was frustrated and confused, but this was typical of his dad. He just wanted to get past it, so he tucked his hands under his arms, squawked, and, in a scratchy chicken's voice, repeated, "That was the day I birthed you."

His dad laughed at him. Also typical. "No, no. Chickens lay eggs." Spencer slumped his shoulders and awaited further instruction. "How is a baby chick born? And skip the theatrics. It works better without them."

"What works better?"

"Just-c'mon."

"That was the day I . . ." Spencer thought for a minute, and his dad's face began to light up. ". . . hatched you?"