Although I didn’t get to see Mom today, I will be seeing her soon. I am forever her baby. And I am forever grateful for that fact. Thank you, Mother.
Merry Mother’s Day, Y’all
Mom, Me, And A Book
This is my fave-rave photograph of me with Mom. I must have had a sore throat or stuffy nose, because that’s a Vick’s rag around my neck. It was my Vick’s Rag o’ the Day—precursor to my penchant for all kinds of Neckwear o’ the Day. I so love my mother.
Mom, Queen O’ Power-naps
Mom has always been a superb napper when she’s had time to do nothing for a few minutes. Here she is at our house in 2014, napping with Roxy and Skitter. If I remember correctly, she had been binge-watching BLUE BLOODS that whole day, and we all know how exhausting that sort of thing can be. When filing photographs, I’ve noticed that I have a bunch of pix of Mom in full nap mode. When Mom visited us in Delta or here in Centerville, it was somehow a huge happiness for me to see her sleep as I puttered around the house. I’m sad our sleepovers are in the past now.
Mother’s Day Approaches
Here’s a photo of Mom eating a sandwich while sitting on her sofa, back in August of 2017—weeks after breaking her hip. Mom has always been a good sport about donning the neckwear I hand her for what she calls “our tie pictures.” This lavender Bow Tie o’ the Day was privileged to spend some time with her that day. You’re probably saying to yourself, “Why the gosh are you showing us a snapshot of your mother with her eyes closed?” Go ahead—ask Mom, and she’ll be the first one to tell you that one of her claims to fame is that she has somehow managed to unwittingly close her eyes in most of the photos taken of her throughout the 90 years of her life. Actually seeing Mom’s gorgeous, ice-blue eyes in a photo is, indeed, a rare thing.
Our Little Hoover
I was sweeping and mopping in the kitchen this afternoon, and I found a small edible stuck to the floor, the likes of which I don’t even recall buying or stocking in the pantry. It was normal to find mysterious “food things” on the floor when Rowan was a wee sprite, but he’s got his own place now. I know Skitter hasn’t brought any edible trophies into the house, because she would be too afraid to touch a food that I didn’t personally give her. Anyhoo… During my sweeping today, I found a tiny unidentifiable blob on the floor under the kitchen island. I am not going to stress out about where it came from and who might have dropped it there. I’m going to forget it completely, figuring Suzanne recently ate something and a sliver of it got away from her—depositing itself where it wasn’t visible to anyone until I did the bigly sweep.
I impart to you all of this information to help paint a picture of how a freaky blob turned me all teary and nostalgic for our long-departed canine, Roxy Lou—as seen with me here in the accompanying photograph from 2008. Back when Roxy was on floor patrol, sweeping in the kitchen was a cinch for me. Why? Because Roxy was our Hoover. She was our Electrolux, our Oreck, our Shark. She was our Roomba. In her younger years, I swear, she could hear a crumb falling from the counter and be stationed right under it with her choppers open to catch it before it even hit the floor. Our floors sparkled effortlessly with Roxy on the job. Of course, she did become the fattest mini-dachsie in the world, but she was happy. As she slowed down in her old age—and got whoa! wider, she didn’t even try to beat the occasional cooking crumbs and scraps which fell to the floor. She knew darn well that whatever was falling would be untouched on the floor when she waddled over to claim it. While cooking, I sometimes let things fall to the floor on purpose, just to watch Roxy at her anteater-like work.
I am proud to say that the beauteous Roxy Lou was an equal opportunity eater, which amused us to no end. We’ve always had dogs, but only Roxy hoovered every edible thing. A fallen watermelon rind? Roxy ate it. A dropped banana peel? Roxy ate it. A stray piece of cauliflower or broccoli from the cutting board? Roxy devoured it and wanted more. I gave her a pickle once, just to see what she would do. Without batting a sour eye, Roxy gobbled it up with doggie glee. Near the end of her days on earth, when she only had three teeth left in her ancient mouth, she hoovered a few fallen chopped onion fragments. I can report that the onion improved the smell of her stinky breath by leaps and bounds.
The Perfect Mother’s Day Card
Mom has always had a talent for finding just the right card for any occasion. She shopped for cards like they were fine wines. She had a stockpile of hand-picked cards for every possible future event, which she kept in her “card drawer” in her dresser. With this in mind, you can see why giving Mom a card for any occasion has always been a challenge. My goal has always been to give Mom a card she hasn’t seen already, or one she hasn’t already bought and hidden away for her own purposes. I think I have successfully met the challenge this year. This is the Mother’s Day card I’m sending to her. It will hit her funny bone. And, as an added bonus, its message is true.
Grumble, Grumble
This is one of my fave-rave Mask o’ the Day offerings of the pandemic year. Bow Tie o’ the Day is no style slouch either. I, on the other hand, am a mass of a mess today. For some reason I’m experiencing a convergence of all the characteristics I can’t stand myself to be, if only temporarily: grouchy, prickly, manic, depressed, impatient, agitated, pessimistic, defeated, and trapped. I hate when I feel any of these things—let alone when I feel the whole gamut all at once. Oh heck, I know this little storm o’ negativity will pass. It always does. At the very least, this mix reminds me I’m human, because I know we have all experienced the abyss. I’ve found the best cure is to reach out to help somebody who happens to be worse off—despite our own discomfort. And we all have to cut ourselves a whole lot of slack, too.
Wearing Breakfast
My dad occasionally got the urge to make a bigly breakfast for me and Mom—his breakfast “stack,” to be precise. I’d hear him in the kitchen shredding potatoes while I was getting ready for school, and I knew I’d soon be eating a yummy, tower o’ food. The frying would quickly commence. Dad’s stack was simple, but perfect: a little olive oil, hash browns, a fried egg, a thin ham steak or bacon, cheese, more hash browns, and green onions—all stacked up high, in just that order. The stacks grew to precarious heights on our plates. It was the Leaning Tower o’ Breakfast. Dad was so very proud of his creation, which he had seen a chef make once in a nice restaurant on one of his bee trips. It’s just another thing I miss about my dad sometimes. My bacon-and-eggs shirt made me think of it today.
Fashion hint: You cannot go wrong with bacon and eggs. Just like they are appropriate for any meal, at any time of day, I believe you must have at least one bacon-and-eggs-themed piece of clothing or accessory. You can wear it anywhere, and people who see you in it will feel magically calmed and nostalgic. Merely seeing bacon-and-eggs fabric can be hypnotizing—like watching puppies or babies. Bacon-and-eggs anything causes pleasant, homey, and tasty memories for just about everyone.🥓🥚
My Fake Brother’s New Calling
My nephew, Travis, and I grew up more like siblings. One minute I’m holding tiny toddler Travis’ naked butt up against the windshield of his mom’s bouncy Rambler, so he can moon all of Delta’s Main Street traffic—and the next minute, he’s Bishop Travis. And the minute after that, he’s called to be the Stake President. Clearly, I raised him right. 😉