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.
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.
I’m Sure There’s A Bow Tie Under My Beard
Look at what I found while scouring through my files. I do not remember being Santa at this Delta High School newspaper staff party. I do remember Barbara though. She made me laugh and she had a bigly vocabulary, so we said bigly words to each other when we talked. It’s always a pleasure to run into her when our paths cross. I wish they crossed more often.
And While We’re On The Subject Of Places We’ve Lived
Tie o’ the Day screams to show y’all the Delta house we had for 17 years. Mom and her Pepsi are with us in this collage snapshot. Suzanne’s holding Skitter. I’m being the tie/bow tie missionary I truly am. And Bernie Sanders stopped by to chat.
Suzanne and I called our Delta house Southfork (as in the tv show DALLAS), and we called it the Desert Beach House. I think of it most fondly as my grandparents’ former house. When I owned it, I thought of it as my own private tumbleweed ranch. I had a serious green thumb for growing all shapes, sizes, and styles of tumbleweeds. The best part about this house is that it was just an easement away from my parents’ home, which came in especially handy after Dad passed away. When we were in Delta, we could keep a protective eye on Mom, without cramping her gallivanting style. Rowan and I spent the bulk of his childhood summers in this house, while Suzanne stayed in Ogden and slaved at the office. She grabbed chunks of time to spend in Delta whenever she could get away from work. Rowan got the benefit of growing up by my parents and surrounded by my grandnieces and grandnephews. Our summer porch was always full of Mom, and kids, and bubbles, and root beer floats. Oh, and the porch was home to buckets of sidewalk chalk for creating miles of kid art to behold. I am proud to say that no self-respecting kid ever walked off our porch clean. 🏖
Know Thy Strengths And Weaknesses
I spent most of the afternoon at home, listening to loud music while I worked. That’s why I’m showing you my sheet music Face Mask o’ the Day. I love music, but I have no talent for creating it whatsoever. I took a year or so of piano lessons from Glenna Moody, culminating in my recital performance of a piece called “The Prairie Song.” If I remember correctly, the song sounded a lot like “Book of Mormon Stories,” so I liked it. Unfortunately, despite Glenna Moody’s skillful instruction, none of what I learned from piano lessons stuck. On most of my Delta Elementary report cards, my only bad marks were in music and art. How is it even possible for a kid to do poorly in elementary school music and art? I guess I worked really hard to find a way to fail at something every other kid had no chance of failing. Let’s face it: I was a music spaz. I am meant to sing only when alone in my car or my house, although I have always been an avid listener to most types of music. I was born to hide my musical ineptitude under a bushel for the good of all mankind’s ears, and I was also born to sit in the audience and clap my gratitude for those who have the musical aptitude.
Mom Is Still The Queen Bee O’ The Prom
So yesterday morning, before Skitter and I got in the car to make our pilgrimage to Millard Care And Rehab to visit Mom, Suzanne told me she liked my shirt but she said it kinda hurt her eyes, too. I considered changing into a less busy shirt, because I didn’t want my attire to cause injury to Mom’s old, old eyes. Ultimately, I didn’t change it, and one of the first things Mom said to me when she saw me was, “I like your shirt.” I told her what Suzanne had said about it earlier, and Mom said, “Well, if it bothers my eyes to look at your shirt, I’ll just quit looking at it.” Mom is a very sensible gal.
As Skitter and I made our way through the halls of MCR to get to Mom’s room, the staff was quick to welcome us back to the facility. And I was quick to give them our family’s thanks for their quality care of Mom during the pandemic. They kept her safe and engaged, and we never doubted they would. Indeed, when I walked into Mom’s room, she was alert and chatty. When I first hugged her, she seemed smaller and more fragile than when I hugged her last. It was like hugging a bird—but I’m sure that was mostly because it had been so long between hugs.
The window in Mom’s room gives her a clear view of people going into, or out of, the care center. She can also see the ambulance pull up to the ER at the hospital across the way. She especially enjoys watching the medical helicopter come and go. Mom and I sat on Mom’s bed talking and watching the world doing its thing outside her window. Mom was captivated by the construction guys working on the hospital roof. We laughed as they took turns coming down the ladder to use the port-a-potty in the parking lot. For a moment, it felt like she and I were sitting on The Porch again—Mom holding court and scattering her spunkiness and opinions everywhere within ear-reach.
As an added bonus for Mom yesterday, her friends, Dot and Roberta, drove past her window, as if on cue, and I managed to flag them down. They were gracious enough to stop and come over to Mom’s window so she could see them up-close. The three of them yelled greetings to each other through the window glass. (Oh, and Mom made me lift Skitter up to the window, so she could introduce The Skit to her good friends.) Dot and Roberta were cackling when they left, and so were we. Mom beamed at her almost-back-to-normal day as a resident of MCR. She can’t wait to go on MCR drives again, and she mentioned wanting to get back to playing BINGO with the other residents, too. I reminded her she will probably have to be patient a little longer, and she reminded me how much neither of us Helen’s likes to be patient.
My fave-rave moment of yesterday was a classic, comedic Mom moment. I nursed my bottle of Diet Coke and Mom had Pepsi in her cup as she and I chatted. Yup, we were drinkin’ together again. At some point, Skitter—who sat right up against Mom’s leg throughout the entirety of our visit—started sniffing at Mom’s cup. Quick-witted as ever, Mom feigned horror and said, “Skitter! You don’t want to drink that! That’ll get you drunk!” It caught me by surprise, and I admit I snort-laughed at Mom and the idea that she would spike anyone’s drink—let alone her own. I asked her what the Hell-en she spiked her Pepsi with, and where did she hide it, because I wanted some too. We kidded back and forth about that for a while, and at some point I said she should tell me where her booze was so we could get Skitter drunk, and put it on YouTube and get rich. I told her she was being stingy, and that I didn’t know how she was raised, but that my mother sure as Hell-en raised me to always share my liquor with the people I love.
What a bigly splendid day it was, in Mom’s little room! I can’t wait for our next visit.
I Finally Got To Hug My Helen, Sr.
Skitter wore a St. Paddy Tie o’ the Day for our in-person, in-the-same-room visit with Mom yesterday. Mom and Skitter were glued to each other the whole time, and I was just a third-wheel. Luckily, I did manage to grab a few hugs from my very own mother. In this afternoon’s post, I will regale you with the complete tales of yesterday’s adventures with Mom. She was in fine form, so stay tuned. Ain’t Mom just the cutest old lady?
I Need A Trim
How do I know I need a trim? Because only two weeks after I got them shaved, my head hairs are already long enough to hold my shamrock hair clips. Green Bow Tie o’ the Day is kinda grass-like in its fabric design. It does remind me of hilly fields in Ireland. And I’ll tell you a secret: The last item on my Bucket List is to die on one of the Aran Islands in western Ireland. If I have to die—and we all do—that’s the place I wanna be when I do it. Well, today that’s where I want to die, anyway. The place designated in the last item on my Bucket List changes often.
Folks, I am so stoked to be able to visit Mom in her room at Millard Care and Rehab tomorrow. I have not been able to concentrate on much else, since I got the news this morning that visitors are again allowed to hang with the residents. Things are not back to normal-normal. For example, visitors are allowed to visit their person only in their person’s room. That’s fine by me. All I need is a hug from my mother, and she probably needs one from me after a year. I know for a fact that she needs a hug from Skitter. Skitter will jump up on Mom’s bed, curling up against Mom’s leg to nap just like she belongs there. Mom will then coo at Skitter, and pet her the entire time we’re visiting. Helen Sr. will be so overjoyed to see Skitter that I’ll be lucky to steal a few hugs from the grand old broad.
Seriously, although I turned 57 last week, this afternoon I feel more like just the 7. The thought of seeing Mom in person—and being able to touch her—has got me feeling like a kid on Christmas Eve. I won’t sleep a wink tonight.