Perfect Spot

Quiet, slow-paced day. As I passed through the kitchen to pick up coffee for my bath, 12:34 reaffirmed that I was in the correct spot as if there is a script written some where or perhaps the script is known, part of an oral traditions.

Most of the time, I feel out of chronological order, and that somewhere along the yellow brick road, I took a wrong turn and no longer was heading off to battle a witch. Maybe I wasn’t on the wrong path. Maybe I knew I could take the witch West on, but I just wasn’t in the mood to do that dance. Mostly I wanted to avoid the monkeys. How dare they make such a cute animal so evil?

As I lounge and savor the hot bath, I feel thanks and blessings to all the people in and out of my life. Perhaps I had a recollection that my mom enjoyed hot baths, a place to escape.

I wish my mom could have celebrated more than forty-nine Thanksgiving, but I am Thankful for the twelve years. If I had to choose between having Ruth Preston Stanley Honthumb for just twelve years or another mother for more than fifty-six, I would take the twelve years hands down.

My mom was a subtle rebel rouser. She could have forced me to wear skirts and dresses, but instead she sewed together coulottes, and I am not in the mood to care if I spell the skirt-like shorts. Skorts, I don’t think had been invented.

My mom pushed the envelope by making me pants that went with dresses. I was elated when pant suits came into fashion. I hated the polyester, but I detested the lack of pockets. Where was I going to keep my stuff?

My mom and I had a wonderful relationship. She didn’t mind my being her baby, and I loved playing that role. Perhaps in a previous life I was from royalty and always got my way. My mom didn’t seem to mind my Royal temperament, and don’t dare to make me do anything I don’t want to do.

I am sure my mom left me all sorts of hints to get around rules and expectations.

When I was at camp, my mom sent me my glove, which I loaned to a friend. In addition to the glove, my mom had hidden gum in the fingers. The soggy and wrinkled gum didn’t keep me from eating it, such probably disgusted most of my cabin mates.

My mom knew gum couldn’t be kept in the cabins. Earlier she had smuggled pistachios. It didn’t occur to me that red fingertips would give me away. My pockets probably were making percussion noises as the shells put out a rhythm.

All of you by now have heard me write about my forty-four-year-old drumsticks. My last present from my mom. Right after my dad denied my seeing Buddy Rich, and denying my desire to play drums, my mom gave me these eight months before she died. Thanks mom.


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