My second, and by far most fun, job I had as a high school student was working behind the concession stand at a local theater. This was back in the day when the theaters were huge and a small bag of buttered popcorn set you back 50 cents. At this theater, we served coffee for the patrons as they waited in the lobby for the theater to open. There were always two showings on Saturday and Sunday. This resulted in me emptying the 30 cup urn, full of steaming coffee, into the sink, four times in two days. By Sunday evening my watch would be fogged up with condensation from the steam. Dad suggested that I place the watch on a bare light bulb to evaporate the condensation. Amazingly, this method worked like a charm. It became my Sunday night ritual for as long as I worked at the theater.
Flash forward to the present…..
When on their annual trek to “the islands” Dad reported that he went swimming the last day with his watch in the pocket of his bathing suit. Luckily, he was swimming in a pool and not the ocean. The salt/sand free water should evaporate, over time.
After waiting several months for the drying out period to end, Dad lost his patience. I did not see the watch, but according to him, there was still condensation built up under the crystal. In his infinite wisdom and quirky way of doing things, Dad put the watch in the microwave, to speed up the drying process. I found out about this plan of action, post-zapping.
Dad confesses that his plan didn’t work. I ask him why he just didn’t put the watch on top of a light bulb. He shrugs his shoulders and says he just didn’t think of it. Poor Dad; he loved that watch. Apparently, he never had to wind it because it had a kinetic sensor that “wound” it every time he moved his wrist.
Dad brought the watch to his favorite jewelry store, in hopes of getting it repaired. This is pure wishful thinking. I don’t know how the jeweler kept a straight face as he handed the watch back to Dad, telling him it was a lost cause.
A couple of weeks later I found the watch, sans its band. It was in an envelope, sitting in the car. It looked so sad and dejected. The melting action of the microwave bent the crystal, lifting it off the face. It was clouded over, etched with a zillion micro-scratches due to flying nano-particles. The back had not fared any better. In fact the back was off completely, exposing the once-upon-on-time working mechanism. It was really pathetic. It was no match for the power of the nuke. Taps were played at dawn.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Thursday, April 29, 2010
What the Hell Is That Smell?!?!
The other day I used my folks’ car to carry me away to Barnes & Noble for some peace and quiet. This is one of my favorite respite places. An hour or two of scanning books, reading and sipping hot chocolate steadies me to face another week.
I jump in the car; close the door and am immediately assaulted with an odor most foul. Man! What the hell died in here?!?! I look down at Mom’s little car trash bag thinking a rotten apple core must be stinkin’ up the joint. Well, I figure, I’ll just toss it when I get back home.
With the windows rolled all the way down, I cruise on down the road to B&N. After ninety minutes, or so, I am back in the car. Scrunching up my nose, I quickly push the down window button. I think the smell is getting worse. It is growing legs and running all over the car. I am almost positive I see green toxic gas escaping from the ventilation system.
Off to the grocery store to pick a few items for the upcoming week. Forgetting all about the offensive odor, I wheel the food cart back to the car and pop open the trunk. A mushroom cloud of funkalicious foulness almost knocks me to the ground. Aha! The source of stink is discovered!
Mom and Dad forgot to bring the groceries in from a previous food shopping trip. Don’t ask me how long the food was in the trunk. I didn’t take the time to carbon date any of the specimens. I did spy a plastic container of former strawberries, now posing as a pile of fuzzy grey pebbles. Quickly stashing the newly acquired fresh food, I rush home – windows open, naturally.
In addition to the strawberries, a carton of eggs and liquefied asparagus are in the trunk. Throwing out these items, along with a spritz or two of air freshener eliminates the odor – thank goodness! Luckily, most of the food is nonperishable, and won’t go to waste.
Peace,
JaneEllen
I jump in the car; close the door and am immediately assaulted with an odor most foul. Man! What the hell died in here?!?! I look down at Mom’s little car trash bag thinking a rotten apple core must be stinkin’ up the joint. Well, I figure, I’ll just toss it when I get back home.
With the windows rolled all the way down, I cruise on down the road to B&N. After ninety minutes, or so, I am back in the car. Scrunching up my nose, I quickly push the down window button. I think the smell is getting worse. It is growing legs and running all over the car. I am almost positive I see green toxic gas escaping from the ventilation system.
Off to the grocery store to pick a few items for the upcoming week. Forgetting all about the offensive odor, I wheel the food cart back to the car and pop open the trunk. A mushroom cloud of funkalicious foulness almost knocks me to the ground. Aha! The source of stink is discovered!
Mom and Dad forgot to bring the groceries in from a previous food shopping trip. Don’t ask me how long the food was in the trunk. I didn’t take the time to carbon date any of the specimens. I did spy a plastic container of former strawberries, now posing as a pile of fuzzy grey pebbles. Quickly stashing the newly acquired fresh food, I rush home – windows open, naturally.
In addition to the strawberries, a carton of eggs and liquefied asparagus are in the trunk. Throwing out these items, along with a spritz or two of air freshener eliminates the odor – thank goodness! Luckily, most of the food is nonperishable, and won’t go to waste.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Monday, January 11, 2010
Humor: Wrinkle Solution
Peckish. Isn’t that a great word?. It even sounds like it means: cranky. It describes my mood over the past few days. This combined with feeling like Cinderella while living in the frozen tundra. There are several things that don’t sit well with me and frigid, arctic weather for any extended period of time is one of them. It has been well below freezing for a week and it makes me peckish.
As for the Cinderella syndrome….well that comes from planning the meals, pouring over ads for the best bargains, making the menu, composing the list, pulling out the coupons, pushing a cart up and down the aisle, hunting down the grocery items, standing in line, bagging the groceries, loading bags into the car trunk, driving home, unloading the groceries and finally cooking the meal. Only to discover that Mom doesn’t feel like eating and Dad refuses to eat the chili I just made. And let’s not forget how much I do not like to cook. My disdain for cooking is not a recent phenomenon. I never liked cooking. Now, however, it is one of my responsibilities. God has a very twisted sense of humor. We will talk about this in the afterlife.
I want to scream and stomp my feet like a 2 year old. In other words, I feel like Cinderella. Cue the small violins playing in the background of my self-indulgent pity-party extravaganza.
The next day I prayed in church for patience, guidance and more patience. God sent me a message in the guise of humor.
After church I went to the department store to return a few items. I took my time meandering down the aisles, enjoying the solitude and quiet in my head. Looking at a bin of gadgets, I spotted a sweater “shaver”. It is one of those gadgets that de-fuzzes the puffy pills that form on sweaters. I have a few sweaters that have pills and picked up the shaver.
As I was unloading my purchases, I showed the de-fuzzer to Mom. I remember her having one a number of years ago. She did not remember, at first. I said, “It shaves the fuzz off”. “Oh, you are going to use it in the shower on your legs.” Ahhhh, not exactly. I laughed and said, “No this is for the little fuzz balls on sweaters.”. Mom chuckled, “That’s right.”
For me, a little humor like the exchange above goes a long way in smoothing out the tired lines creeping across my heart. It helps me to put things in perspective and laugh at life.
There will be more days like the recent ones, where I feel overwhelmed and under loved. But that is a part of this life I now lead. And if I really pause to reflect on this, there are many people who have similar moments. Life is messy.
The saving grace is that God is in and amongst my messes, sending love…and humor my way.
Peace,
JaneEllen
As for the Cinderella syndrome….well that comes from planning the meals, pouring over ads for the best bargains, making the menu, composing the list, pulling out the coupons, pushing a cart up and down the aisle, hunting down the grocery items, standing in line, bagging the groceries, loading bags into the car trunk, driving home, unloading the groceries and finally cooking the meal. Only to discover that Mom doesn’t feel like eating and Dad refuses to eat the chili I just made. And let’s not forget how much I do not like to cook. My disdain for cooking is not a recent phenomenon. I never liked cooking. Now, however, it is one of my responsibilities. God has a very twisted sense of humor. We will talk about this in the afterlife.
I want to scream and stomp my feet like a 2 year old. In other words, I feel like Cinderella. Cue the small violins playing in the background of my self-indulgent pity-party extravaganza.
The next day I prayed in church for patience, guidance and more patience. God sent me a message in the guise of humor.
After church I went to the department store to return a few items. I took my time meandering down the aisles, enjoying the solitude and quiet in my head. Looking at a bin of gadgets, I spotted a sweater “shaver”. It is one of those gadgets that de-fuzzes the puffy pills that form on sweaters. I have a few sweaters that have pills and picked up the shaver.
As I was unloading my purchases, I showed the de-fuzzer to Mom. I remember her having one a number of years ago. She did not remember, at first. I said, “It shaves the fuzz off”. “Oh, you are going to use it in the shower on your legs.” Ahhhh, not exactly. I laughed and said, “No this is for the little fuzz balls on sweaters.”. Mom chuckled, “That’s right.”
For me, a little humor like the exchange above goes a long way in smoothing out the tired lines creeping across my heart. It helps me to put things in perspective and laugh at life.
There will be more days like the recent ones, where I feel overwhelmed and under loved. But that is a part of this life I now lead. And if I really pause to reflect on this, there are many people who have similar moments. Life is messy.
The saving grace is that God is in and amongst my messes, sending love…and humor my way.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Packing It In
The holidays have come and gone. Mom and Dad went to Patty’s house, in New Orleans, aka N’awlins. The packing the night before was an ongoing process. I love my parents, but just wanted to scream, “Just let me do this and it will be done in 30 minutes!”. Since that was not an option, I did my best to keep sane.
Mom had no idea what to pack. When I took a breather, I was able to step back and walk in her shoes. How frustrating it must be to not be able to do the simplest of tasks. Deciding what to wear the next day is insurmountable for her. Luckily, Mom is open to suggestions. Although she packed more dresses than needed, we were able to get everything in the suitcase.
Next, was Dad. Of course he thought he was packed. As I looked through the suitcase, I realized that he was not nearly done. He packed a suit jacket that needed dry cleaning. With his poor eyesight, he can’t see the spots of dirt on his jacket. Back to the closet, sorting out his clothes, Mom and I pack him up. Finally, after three hours, and a lot of muttering to myself , we were set.
The plan was to get up at 6:30am, so we would be heading to airport by 8:15am. Well, even this does not go smoothly. I awaken in the middle of the night to the muffled sounds of Mom and Dad talking and moving about in their room. Shit! I must have overslept! I grab my cell phone and check the time. It is 4:40am! I stride down the hall wondering what the hell they are doing up at this hour. Not only were they awake, but dressed and ready to head downstairs. I glance at their alarm clock and it reads 7:42am. My guess is that they had fiddled with the time while setting the alarm clock.
I announce the correct time ending with a stern, “I am going to bed and you should too.” Dad just looks up and says, “Well now that I am up, I am hungry and eating breakfast, first.” Whatever, is all I can think as I crawl back into bed. I naively think they will eat and then take a nap for a couple of hours.
Next thing I hear is Dad in Adrienne’s room. He walked in, flipped on the light and was looking in her closet for his black sports coat. Not finding it there, he tells her that it must be in Em’s closet. Saving Emily from the same abrupt nocturnal inspection, Adrienne tells him that it is most definitely not in her closet. Again, I get up and tell Dad that we packed another suit for him. I go back to bed, thinking that silence will ensue. Ha! Not likely with these two.
Dad is on a mission to find his black sports coat. I hear the chair lift beeping down the steps. I listened as he opens the front door and goes out to the car. I guess he is looking in the car for the coat. I worry that he will slip on the black ice, so I lay awake to make sure he isn’t out there too long. Dad comes back in and chair lifts himself up to his room. This scenario repeats itself, one more time. The chair lift beeps every few seconds whenever it is in motion. Beep-Beep-Beep up and Beep-Beep-Beep down. I hate that beeping sound!
After an hour of commotion, silence descends upon the house. Silence truly is golden!
Thankfully, the ride to the airport was uneventful.
Are there any lessons in all this chaos???? Probably not. What I have learned is despite my best laid plans, Mom and Dad will do whatever they want, totally disregarding my plans. It is frustrating. At the same time it is their life and not mine. I have to respect them and their wishes. As always, the word patience comes to mind. I was definitely in the low end of the “patience” gene pool. Oh well…there is always the next trip preparations to test me. That is in February. It gives me time to regroup.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Mom had no idea what to pack. When I took a breather, I was able to step back and walk in her shoes. How frustrating it must be to not be able to do the simplest of tasks. Deciding what to wear the next day is insurmountable for her. Luckily, Mom is open to suggestions. Although she packed more dresses than needed, we were able to get everything in the suitcase.
Next, was Dad. Of course he thought he was packed. As I looked through the suitcase, I realized that he was not nearly done. He packed a suit jacket that needed dry cleaning. With his poor eyesight, he can’t see the spots of dirt on his jacket. Back to the closet, sorting out his clothes, Mom and I pack him up. Finally, after three hours, and a lot of muttering to myself , we were set.
The plan was to get up at 6:30am, so we would be heading to airport by 8:15am. Well, even this does not go smoothly. I awaken in the middle of the night to the muffled sounds of Mom and Dad talking and moving about in their room. Shit! I must have overslept! I grab my cell phone and check the time. It is 4:40am! I stride down the hall wondering what the hell they are doing up at this hour. Not only were they awake, but dressed and ready to head downstairs. I glance at their alarm clock and it reads 7:42am. My guess is that they had fiddled with the time while setting the alarm clock.
I announce the correct time ending with a stern, “I am going to bed and you should too.” Dad just looks up and says, “Well now that I am up, I am hungry and eating breakfast, first.” Whatever, is all I can think as I crawl back into bed. I naively think they will eat and then take a nap for a couple of hours.
Next thing I hear is Dad in Adrienne’s room. He walked in, flipped on the light and was looking in her closet for his black sports coat. Not finding it there, he tells her that it must be in Em’s closet. Saving Emily from the same abrupt nocturnal inspection, Adrienne tells him that it is most definitely not in her closet. Again, I get up and tell Dad that we packed another suit for him. I go back to bed, thinking that silence will ensue. Ha! Not likely with these two.
Dad is on a mission to find his black sports coat. I hear the chair lift beeping down the steps. I listened as he opens the front door and goes out to the car. I guess he is looking in the car for the coat. I worry that he will slip on the black ice, so I lay awake to make sure he isn’t out there too long. Dad comes back in and chair lifts himself up to his room. This scenario repeats itself, one more time. The chair lift beeps every few seconds whenever it is in motion. Beep-Beep-Beep up and Beep-Beep-Beep down. I hate that beeping sound!
After an hour of commotion, silence descends upon the house. Silence truly is golden!
Thankfully, the ride to the airport was uneventful.
Are there any lessons in all this chaos???? Probably not. What I have learned is despite my best laid plans, Mom and Dad will do whatever they want, totally disregarding my plans. It is frustrating. At the same time it is their life and not mine. I have to respect them and their wishes. As always, the word patience comes to mind. I was definitely in the low end of the “patience” gene pool. Oh well…there is always the next trip preparations to test me. That is in February. It gives me time to regroup.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Resolution.....
It is the new year, filled with hope and promise. At least this is my optimistic self’s wish. I have neglected my blogging obligations for too long. The decline started with Dad’s first heart attack and continued from there.
I am not one for resolutions, because I can never seem to keep any of them. My life is full of deadlines, duties, schedules and organization that I let the non-essential items fall by the wayside. What I fail to do is to remind myself that blogging is a cathartic experience for me. It allows me to drain the well of emotions that clog my heart. It clears a path for me to see that indeed there is a road in front of me and that life is a never ending journey.
With this in mind, I will try my best to blog each week. In addition to the cleansing benefit of writing, I really want an account of living with Mom. Knowing full well that as time passes, so do the daily details of life. It is in the details that give life to a story, allowing it to breathe. Inhaling the aroma of our lives gives us meaning and purpose. It connects us to one another, forming a community of travelers. While each of us has our own journey to follow, our paths intersect over and over. I know I am not alone. And perhaps that is the greatest benefit of blogging.
Peace,
JaneEllen
I am not one for resolutions, because I can never seem to keep any of them. My life is full of deadlines, duties, schedules and organization that I let the non-essential items fall by the wayside. What I fail to do is to remind myself that blogging is a cathartic experience for me. It allows me to drain the well of emotions that clog my heart. It clears a path for me to see that indeed there is a road in front of me and that life is a never ending journey.
With this in mind, I will try my best to blog each week. In addition to the cleansing benefit of writing, I really want an account of living with Mom. Knowing full well that as time passes, so do the daily details of life. It is in the details that give life to a story, allowing it to breathe. Inhaling the aroma of our lives gives us meaning and purpose. It connects us to one another, forming a community of travelers. While each of us has our own journey to follow, our paths intersect over and over. I know I am not alone. And perhaps that is the greatest benefit of blogging.
Peace,
JaneEllen
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Living in the Now with Dad
The first pains to his shoulder were thought to be due to bursitis from an old college injury when he broke his collar bone. A quick shot of cortisone and everything would be fine. Or so his doctor said.
The next week the same intense shoulder pain returned. Off to the doctor and the same diagnosis accompanied by a script for a MRI of the shoulder and possible physical therapy. Or so his doctor said.
The third time the pain was even more intense, but now it was a Sunday evening and he just wanted another shot of cortisone for the pain. As we are walking out to the car, his breaths are becoming strained and short. One red flag goes off in my brain. He has to sit in the kitchen to get his strength to keep walking. Second red flag is raised. We get to the front porch bench and he sits again, stating that the pain is so bad, it is making him break out in a cold sweat. He says he is nauseous. Red flags three and four pop up like jack-in-the-boxes. My brain is filled with a tidal wave of red flags threatening to come crashing down onto Dad. This is not good. This could be really bad. Stay calm I tell myself. Don’t panic. Don’t alarm anyone. And most importantly, just get him to the hospital. I mean, after all it’s just bursitis or arthritis or an old injury paying a call. Or so his doctor said.
That was the beginning of Dad’s heart attacks. Looking back with the hindsight that we can only gain from reviewing the past, I am convinced that the initial shoulder pain episodes were mild heart attacks. I don’t know if I can ever reconcile the anger I have for the quack doc who only saw an aging man with aches and pains creeping in to his life. He never stopped to consider that there may be more serious issues at play. I have to work on this reconciliation.
Two cardiac stents later Dad is back home. I have written up placards detailing the signs of cardiac distress. Hanging them in the various rooms of the house, I attach bags of nitro tabs to the signs. The signs are talismans, preventing any further trouble. I am foolish enough to believe that my efforts will stem the tide of future attacks.
Dad is home for maybe a week when my talisman fails. This time, I know it is a heart attack. Popping a Nitro tab into Dad’s mouth, I call 911. I would like to say that I calmly reported his symptoms, but that would be a lie. My stomach was churning with each question the disembodied voice on the other end asked. I just wanted to scream, “Enough with the questions! He his having a freaking heart attack! Just get the hell over here!”
As Mom and I are riding to the hospital she says, “One of these times, we won’t be bringing him back home with us.” What could I say? Thankful for the darkness hiding my tears, thankful for the sound of the tires riding across the pavement, creating a humming blanket to cover the silence that filled the car, I finally reply, “I know Mom”. I prayed for the strength to get through all of this. I prayed that this time, Dad would come home with us.
Dad did come home, after a third stent was placed in his chest.
As for now…well,…I don’t know. At first I felt like I was mentally crossing off the days till the “big one” lays him out. I hated feeling that way. As if I was one of the Grim Reaper’s minions, hovering and waiting for death to come.
One day I realized that this waiting was toxic for me. Praying for a peaceful existence, while living with the reality of all that had happened in the past five weeks, I found what I was seeking. I need to live in the moment, in the now. For if I don’t do that, I will miss the gift of Dad’s life. A gift I can’t get back once he is gone. That is where my heart lives.
This is not easy for me. I am still on hyper alert for any possible warning signs. But I hold on to my conviction to live for the present. I can not control the future. I can only follow my heart. I can only live in present. And be thankful for Dad’s presence today, for I don’t know what tomorrow will bring.
Peace,
Jane Ellen
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Momisms
I have been busy with travel, leaving me little time for writing. Now that I have a breather I can write about a few Momisms. You know, the stuff that happens that tells you this is real life, not a commercial where everything is rosy and plastic. When Momisms occur I take a second to look at them and allow myself to chuckle at them. For they are usually signs that Mom is not stabilizing, but is a shade lighter than she was the day before.
I was sitting in my office when the house phone rang. I always listen in on my parents’ conversation. Not to fulfill any voyeurism need I am hiding from everyone. No, I listen, because I worry that one of them will give out personal information over the phone, to a stranger. Mom was giving short answers to someone asking for a charitable contribution. I heard her say, “Yes, I would like to give some money, but how???” Boing! Boing! Boing! Red flags are popping up in my mind. “Oh, you need my credit card number?…hold on, I will have to get it.” I sprang into action like a phone police superwoman. Since I knew the caller was an unknown to Mom, I quickly told her to never give her credit card number to anyone, especially a charitable organization she never heard of. Mom returns to the phone, “I’m sorry I don’t know you and I am sure you are a very nice person, but I can’t give you my credit card number. I am sorry. Can you send me something in the mail?” I guess the person couldn’t do that because she quickly said good bye and hung up. I have to give Mom credit for being nice. I am nasty when it comes to any phone solicitation. I guess I have more Dad in me when it comes to such matters.
A couple of weeks ago, Mom went with me to wash windows and do some cleaning at my house. It is almost ready to be put on the market – yea! The really huge YEA! goes to Mike, Laura and family for all of their work on this never ending project. Mom and I arrived at the house. There is a flurry of activity going on: Mike was working downstairs while a construction crew of 3 men were redoing my sidewalk and two retaining walls. We stepped around the wet cement, tools and over a threshold that was in the making. We started cleaning. Mom took a break and then asked me what’s next. She had already informed me, “I don’t do windows. I just pay someone to wash my windows”. OK, Princess Marilyn. She did the final mopping of the hardwood floor. By the time she was done, I had finished the window in the small office. She said she would mop the floor. I reminded her to use the furniture spray, like she did in the other room. Mom started spraying the polish directly on the floor. “Mom!” I yelled in my alarming voice. “Just spray the polish on the mop and then mop the floor so you don’t get too much polish on the floor.” The filter slid down a couple of notches and in the most haughty tone she could muster she replied, “Well, I wasn’t raised to be a maid.” Ooohhhhh….Mom gets in a dig. “I know, Mom. Me neither” I replied.
We started washing the windows in my bedroom, which overlook the side yard. A man walked from the front yard, through the side and into the back. “Who is that man?” Mom asked. “He’s the owner.” I replied, referring to the construction crew working out front when we came in earlier. “He owns this house???” Mom asked. “No, that is the guy who owns the cement company working on the sidewalk.” I answered. Without missing a beat, Mom stated emphatically, “That’s good, because I’m not washing his windows!”. I didn’t bother to explain that we were in my house.
I smile when I recall all of her Momisms. They are gems to be remembered and brought out when things get worse, as they inevitably will. When an exhausting day has drained me of my humanity, it will be the Momisms that will ease away my weariness. I pray that her wit and kindness will remain to the end. That way, some of Mom will stay with me and all of us till her final days.
Peace,
JaneEllen
I was sitting in my office when the house phone rang. I always listen in on my parents’ conversation. Not to fulfill any voyeurism need I am hiding from everyone. No, I listen, because I worry that one of them will give out personal information over the phone, to a stranger. Mom was giving short answers to someone asking for a charitable contribution. I heard her say, “Yes, I would like to give some money, but how???” Boing! Boing! Boing! Red flags are popping up in my mind. “Oh, you need my credit card number?…hold on, I will have to get it.” I sprang into action like a phone police superwoman. Since I knew the caller was an unknown to Mom, I quickly told her to never give her credit card number to anyone, especially a charitable organization she never heard of. Mom returns to the phone, “I’m sorry I don’t know you and I am sure you are a very nice person, but I can’t give you my credit card number. I am sorry. Can you send me something in the mail?” I guess the person couldn’t do that because she quickly said good bye and hung up. I have to give Mom credit for being nice. I am nasty when it comes to any phone solicitation. I guess I have more Dad in me when it comes to such matters.
A couple of weeks ago, Mom went with me to wash windows and do some cleaning at my house. It is almost ready to be put on the market – yea! The really huge YEA! goes to Mike, Laura and family for all of their work on this never ending project. Mom and I arrived at the house. There is a flurry of activity going on: Mike was working downstairs while a construction crew of 3 men were redoing my sidewalk and two retaining walls. We stepped around the wet cement, tools and over a threshold that was in the making. We started cleaning. Mom took a break and then asked me what’s next. She had already informed me, “I don’t do windows. I just pay someone to wash my windows”. OK, Princess Marilyn. She did the final mopping of the hardwood floor. By the time she was done, I had finished the window in the small office. She said she would mop the floor. I reminded her to use the furniture spray, like she did in the other room. Mom started spraying the polish directly on the floor. “Mom!” I yelled in my alarming voice. “Just spray the polish on the mop and then mop the floor so you don’t get too much polish on the floor.” The filter slid down a couple of notches and in the most haughty tone she could muster she replied, “Well, I wasn’t raised to be a maid.” Ooohhhhh….Mom gets in a dig. “I know, Mom. Me neither” I replied.
We started washing the windows in my bedroom, which overlook the side yard. A man walked from the front yard, through the side and into the back. “Who is that man?” Mom asked. “He’s the owner.” I replied, referring to the construction crew working out front when we came in earlier. “He owns this house???” Mom asked. “No, that is the guy who owns the cement company working on the sidewalk.” I answered. Without missing a beat, Mom stated emphatically, “That’s good, because I’m not washing his windows!”. I didn’t bother to explain that we were in my house.
I smile when I recall all of her Momisms. They are gems to be remembered and brought out when things get worse, as they inevitably will. When an exhausting day has drained me of my humanity, it will be the Momisms that will ease away my weariness. I pray that her wit and kindness will remain to the end. That way, some of Mom will stay with me and all of us till her final days.
Peace,
JaneEllen
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