Category: Mom
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a couple of farts
While cleaning up a mess in the basement recently, I found a box of photos I had lost track of for quite a while. I was even a little afraid the photos may have been accidentally tosses with the trash a while back, but no! They were not! And I am so happy about that. Read.
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dead rabbit
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improbable
We were watching the first episode of “The Last of Us” when my mom texted me. She was housebound because she’d been hit by the same deep freeze that was keeping all us inside, but for her it was worse: she lives in Arkansas where the road maintenance crews don’t go out to salt or Read.
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life skills
Random recollection: My mom told me she wanted to teach me and my brother some basic housekeeping skills: cooking, cleaning, that sort of thing. Dad wouldn’t allow it, apparently because it was women’s work. Fast-forward a couple years: I was living on my own in an apartment in England. I had to call my mother Read.
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John Valuk is dead, he fell on his head
The other night, I told my youngest son the story of how I fell from the second story of an open stairway. I’m not sure he entirely believed me. When I was born, my parents lived in a small apartment which was really the upper floor of a big frame house that had been divided Read.
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clothe
Just got off the phone with mom, who recalled this memory from when I was but a wee lad: When it was time for mom to go down to the basement to do the laundry, she would say to me, “I have to wash some clothes. Do you want to come downstairs with me, or Read.
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the cat’s ass
My mother once described a certain person’s defining characteristic this way: “He thinks he’s the cat’s ass.” I’ve always been especially fond of this phrase as a way of describing a person who was a little too full of himself, even though I was never quite sure what vanity had to do with a cat’s Read.
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a nice call
Mom called me last night while we were having dinner. “Call you back in about ten minutes,” I promised her, then for the next ten minutes tried and failed not to think about why she might be calling me. Mom doesn’t call me. I call her. It’s one of those unspoken agreements. When she does Read.
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Hash
When I Was But A Wee Lad: Tales From My Dimmest Memory One of the cheap meals my mother would make to stretch the family budget as far as it would go was hash: she’d get a cheap cut of meat from the butcher, a bag of potatoes from the store, and I think maybe Read.
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pimple-popper
When I was but a pimply-faced young man and my pocked complexion developed one of those white-headed zits that seems to pop up overnight, as soon as my Mother caught sight of it, her response was almost reflexive, and a little bit frightening: she would back me into a corner, frame the edges of her Read.
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