The Quiver

We had a birthday bash—well, “bash” might be a bit too strong of a word … a birthday binge might be a better description. My sister invited us all over for Mom’s dinner birthday … “and we did partake.” They had shrimp fettuccine and fresh-picked, grilled asparagus (pronounced aas-pah-RAY-gus, like in Looney Tunes). No joke, grilled. It was nummy beyond expectation. I mean, the fettuccine was really tasty, don’t get me wrong, but my bro-in-law outdid himself with that asparagus dish.

Anyway, after eating ourselves into a stupor (and oh and my what a well sated stupor it was) we plopped ourselves down in front of the Idiot Box and viewed a few things they had on their DVR. After watching bits of this and parts of that, we overrode all objections and got “Bill Cosby, Himself” put on.

Now, my kids have never seen or heard Mr. Cosby himself (not to be confused with “… Cosby, Himself”), but only my weak, partial renditions of The Chicken Heart, and Noah, and the like. I discovered him when I was about nine; my folks had some old LPs and I rooted around in the family storage shed (a.k.a., garage) and found their old turntable and stereo receiver. I nearly wore the grooves out of the vinyl. I had a cassette tape that was eventually at least 15% longer than originally manufactured, I played it so much.

Anyway, my kids seemed to get quite a kick out of Bill Cosby. I think this is an excuse to go buy some CDs. It’s a family building exercise, you see.

[Yes, this is a little late; sue me.]

She’s not the “fairest in the land”,
Nor is she the smartest,
But she’s my Mom.

She’s not the fastest runner,
Nor is she bestest cook,
But she’s my Mom.

She’ll never win the spelling bee,
Nor the Nobel Prize,
But she’s my Mom.

She’s no Joan of Arc,
Nor a Madame Curie,
But she’s my Mom.

Her home won’t win any decorating prizes, but it has character in spades.
Her food will only occasionally be found in actual published books, but it comforts the soul.
Her photos won’t be in fancy magazines and her paintings won’t likely be coming to a gallery near you, but that doesn’t mean those of us who have received them as gifts don’t cherish them.

And if if comes to quoting Pink Panther movies (“Does your dog bite?”),
Or if you need a tasty dish,
Or if a true friend is someone you desperately need,
Or if a water-fight is called for (“Is it 80° outside?!”),
Or if you just want to go for a drive … late at night … and listen to old-time scary radio shows,
Or if you’re craving a wee bit of rhubarb and a swing on the swings-of-lawn,
Or if you honestly, truly need you picture taken (“just one more … no really, this is the last one … oh for Pete’s sake, would you just hold still?!”),
Or if you need an anthropological excursion,
Or someone to calm your pre-Prom jitters,
Or if you need someone to read a bed-time story,
Or to tell you that the Boogey-man won’t get you … probably,
Or need someone to wait up for you to make sure that you make it home safe (when coming home late at night) and are not lying somewhere in a ditch,
Well then, my Mom is just the ticket.

She has been my friend, my confidant, my adviser. Yup, she’s my mom and I wouldn’t trade her for yours for nothin’.

“Don’t use you teeth as tools.”

“If you keep that up, your face’ll freeze that way.” (moms are required to say this regularly to their offspring)

(After a summer of all us kids continually asking “what if” questions at a rate approaching thirty an hour)

“AAGH! No more ‘What-if…?’ questions! I MEAN IT!”

“… but what if we find a dead man in the freezer?”

“Uhg, it’s enough to hark a dog.” (we’re still not sure what this means.)

“Vacuum other half of piano” (on my chore list one summer’s day)

“I will support your decision, but I want my grand-babies raised with Christ as the center of their lives.”

“Oh bird!”

“I thought you were dean in a ditch somewhere.” (said at least weekly during my teen years)

“Oh no, you’re turning into one of those.” (when I started growing a pony tail)

“What you need is closure.”

“Did you brush your teeth?”

“Do you want a ‘Hurtz Donut’?” (said to a seven year old as he came up to the bright, cheery kitchen from the dark, spooky, spider-ridden basement in our hundred year old house)

“AAAAAGHGH!!” (don’t ask; it involved a Put-Put(tm) drill)

“Would you please stop sneaking?!” (I can’t help it if I have a light tread)

“Not in the house!“

“What did you say?!” (followed by much back-pedaling)

Oh! And how could anyone forget

“Show teeth!”

I love you, Mom. Thanks for putting up with me and raising me as well as, and with as much love as you did.

t.