What the Squirrels Saw
My Mom is coming to visit this Friday. She is 72 and could pass for 55. She is known randomly as Mom, Darlene, or Charlie. The last time she was here she beat me 9 out of 11 games of pool at Sam’s. The work people love that story. This time she has a bum shoulder so I may have an outside shot at going 500 against her. She’s not a drinker but likes to practice from time to time with Miller Lite “ponies.” She usually makes it a few sips before sputtering and whatnot. But God bless her for trying. She has a fit when she watches me mix a drink. I make what are called “Ryan Drinks.” As I pour the whiskey into my glass she yelps, “That’s enough! That’s enough!” She knows I won’t stop pouring until she stops saying “That’s enough!” It delights us to aggravate one another and so this delights me doubly—I aggravate her and get more whiskey than I’d originally planned. (And a splash.) She’s convinced that the whiskey is going to ruin my other kidney. And while she is probably right, I’d hate to waste a perfectly good chance to mess with her. So whiskey it is.
She once asked if I thought it would be o.k. for her to put forty pounds of pecans in the washing machine since the gathering site had been overrun with poison ivy. She loves to fuck with me like that. I told her it was absolutely o.k., even advisable. She just grinned at me.
When I played Little League, she used to argue fiercely with the umpires. One of whom stopped a game and attempted to dress her down. He didn’t win. She also once got into an argument with a twelve year old boy from an opposing team. What an asshole that kid was. The exchange happened on our way out of the park, each of them on opposite sides of a twelve foot chain link fence. It ended with Mom asking him how he would like it if she jumped that fence and whipped his little ass. I was too amazed to be embarrassed.
On her rare days off she would take me to the movies. All these years later and we still talk movies.
She would take me to the mall and buy model cars for me to put together. She even helped me pick out ones that she thought were particularly cool.
Her work hours were such that I spent many nights alone. But she kept the freezer stocked and I was never without. From early on I was quite the little cook. I was not so much a latchkey kid as I was a self-sufficient little shit. I’ve never regretted the lesson.
When I go home to visit, she always has sweet tea waiting for me. She has written us once a week since we moved out of state. She loaned me money to fix the transmission in my 1981 Cutlass Supreme. Fifteen years later, she loaned me money to fly to Tokyo. And because she raised me right (as we are fond of saying in the South), I paid back every dime.
She refers to her neighbor of nearly 40 years as “that bitch across the street.” The neighbor has had numerous strokes, has emphysema, and is on oxygen. My Mom swears she is just looking for attention.
My Mom has an ongoing feud with the Augusta, Ga. squirrel population. Many years ago, she planted a plum tree. Nurtured and babied that tree. For a long, long time she waited for it to bear fruit. Eventually, a single plum appeared, ripened, and validated my Mom’s efforts. It made her happy. As she sat at the kitchen table admiring the plum through the sliding glass door one morning, a fat grey squirrel walked cockily up to the tree, inched up as far as was necessary, deftly plucked the single fruit of my mother’s labors, and was gone. The vision I have of her incredulity followed by all out rage sends me into hysterics every time. Since then she keeps a pellet gun by the door “for her prey.” I tell her, “Mom, you're 72. You got no prey.” But she does. And I am certain that plum-stealing son of a bitch rues the day he ever set foot in the yard on Evergreen Drive. At one point following “the incident” she was baiting the squirrels by making little sandwiches and putting them out in the yard. She’s a pretty good shot for an old gal. My Mom hates a squirrel.
But my, she does love a yard sale.
I’ve mentioned that I’ve been homesick lately. My homesickness, though rare, is typically for a Sense of Place. A man needs a Sense of Place. My Mom will bring that with her on Friday. She’ll come in, love on Em (how she adores him), and make herself at home. She’ll set about making me feel better about myself—one of the few things about which she is subtle. She’ll cook for me. She’ll insist that I go out for some “Ryan time.” She’ll make faces at the drinks I make each night. She’ll sit on the sofa beneath the floor lamp with her legs folded beneath her, reading her latest choice. (I always picture her reading or doing a crossword puzzle.) She won’t judge me. And she’ll tell me—nearly convincing me—that I am a good father.
And that will mean the world to me.
She once asked if I thought it would be o.k. for her to put forty pounds of pecans in the washing machine since the gathering site had been overrun with poison ivy. She loves to fuck with me like that. I told her it was absolutely o.k., even advisable. She just grinned at me.
When I played Little League, she used to argue fiercely with the umpires. One of whom stopped a game and attempted to dress her down. He didn’t win. She also once got into an argument with a twelve year old boy from an opposing team. What an asshole that kid was. The exchange happened on our way out of the park, each of them on opposite sides of a twelve foot chain link fence. It ended with Mom asking him how he would like it if she jumped that fence and whipped his little ass. I was too amazed to be embarrassed.
On her rare days off she would take me to the movies. All these years later and we still talk movies.
She would take me to the mall and buy model cars for me to put together. She even helped me pick out ones that she thought were particularly cool.
Her work hours were such that I spent many nights alone. But she kept the freezer stocked and I was never without. From early on I was quite the little cook. I was not so much a latchkey kid as I was a self-sufficient little shit. I’ve never regretted the lesson.
When I go home to visit, she always has sweet tea waiting for me. She has written us once a week since we moved out of state. She loaned me money to fix the transmission in my 1981 Cutlass Supreme. Fifteen years later, she loaned me money to fly to Tokyo. And because she raised me right (as we are fond of saying in the South), I paid back every dime.
She refers to her neighbor of nearly 40 years as “that bitch across the street.” The neighbor has had numerous strokes, has emphysema, and is on oxygen. My Mom swears she is just looking for attention.
My Mom has an ongoing feud with the Augusta, Ga. squirrel population. Many years ago, she planted a plum tree. Nurtured and babied that tree. For a long, long time she waited for it to bear fruit. Eventually, a single plum appeared, ripened, and validated my Mom’s efforts. It made her happy. As she sat at the kitchen table admiring the plum through the sliding glass door one morning, a fat grey squirrel walked cockily up to the tree, inched up as far as was necessary, deftly plucked the single fruit of my mother’s labors, and was gone. The vision I have of her incredulity followed by all out rage sends me into hysterics every time. Since then she keeps a pellet gun by the door “for her prey.” I tell her, “Mom, you're 72. You got no prey.” But she does. And I am certain that plum-stealing son of a bitch rues the day he ever set foot in the yard on Evergreen Drive. At one point following “the incident” she was baiting the squirrels by making little sandwiches and putting them out in the yard. She’s a pretty good shot for an old gal. My Mom hates a squirrel.
But my, she does love a yard sale.
I’ve mentioned that I’ve been homesick lately. My homesickness, though rare, is typically for a Sense of Place. A man needs a Sense of Place. My Mom will bring that with her on Friday. She’ll come in, love on Em (how she adores him), and make herself at home. She’ll set about making me feel better about myself—one of the few things about which she is subtle. She’ll cook for me. She’ll insist that I go out for some “Ryan time.” She’ll make faces at the drinks I make each night. She’ll sit on the sofa beneath the floor lamp with her legs folded beneath her, reading her latest choice. (I always picture her reading or doing a crossword puzzle.) She won’t judge me. And she’ll tell me—nearly convincing me—that I am a good father.
And that will mean the world to me.
posted by Ryan at 10:44 PM
2 Comments:
Good ol Chuck. I can't believe she's over 70! You should write a book about her!
I like your mother.
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