Last winter all of our mothers died, all but Steve‘s, who died when my father was dying.
Mine and Mistletoe‘s, Ruth‘s, my aunt Francie who had been a real mother to me and left her son, my stepmother‘s mother, the mother of the girlfriend of my downstairs neighbor, who had taken care of his mother when she was dying last year, my editor‘s mother. Two uncles died.
Larry, my downstairs neighbor, is hopping around on crutches waiting for Medicare to kick in so he can have a hip replacement in June. I used to say, ―All of my relatives died.
My mother,‖ and he‘d say, ―My mother,‖ and zigzag over the lawn, or, if we were inside, just grab me. Sometimes when his girlfriend would call and he‘s finish talking to her and hang up, he‘d make a bee line for me.
―This isn‘t right,‖ I would say.
―But you‘re here,‖ he would say.
Terry lost his mother when he was thirteen, and he told me that when his father – his parents had been divorced since was a baby – told him, he tore his father‘s place apart.
He said he didn‘t remember doing it.
I told Larry about the time a Fuller Brush man rang Auntie Moll‘s lion head door bell and when she answered the door, he said, ―Ma‘am, there is a spot in the middle of your back that you can‘t reach.‖
―Oh, that‘s so funny,‖ Larry said. ‗Fuller Brush men! They used to come around all the time. And vacuum cleaner salesmen. And people selling encyclopedias.‖
―Do you remember Niblet‘s Corn ™?‖ I asked.
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―Yes!‖ he said. ―And the Jolly Green Giant®!‖
All the time NPR is playing on the radio details of the latest bombing in Iraq.
We have to all hang together because this is the most terrible time to be alive CHAPTER 28