Fifty-Cent Mom

Update:  Just learned today that Luvey Jones passed away this week. Eternal Rest Grant unto her, Oh, Lord, and let the perpetual light shine upon her. Loved you, Luvey! Luvey Jones was my least favorite person to sit next to on Christmas Eve. She was probably my least favorite person of all, but my mother, a good Christian woman, didn't want anyone staying home alone on Christmas Eve. Once we had all moved out, she decided it was her duty to invite all the widows of the world to sample her lasagna before heading off to Christmas Eve mass. Luvey and I clashed long before Christmas Eve. The first time was on a bus trip to D.C. I was 17-years-old and hoping some of the young men would sit next to me. Luvey plopped down, her slight figure barely imprinting the heavy vinyl seat. "You shouldn't eat chocolate," she said as I unwrapped a candy bar. "That's why you have pimples." I quietly tucked the chocolate away for a later time and pulled something

I try to keep this blog light, but I haven't been feeling too light lately. Imagine being a hamster and someone rattling the cage with a metal stick. Just when you've calmed down, the rattling begins all over again. Stress, change, and troubles. The memes on Facebook discuss life's travails all the time. Struggle is inevitable; it's how you deal with it that makes all the difference. Most of us want a smooth road to walk upon life's journey. I'd be lying if I told you otherwise. People need to agree with me all the time, starting with my husband and children; my body must cooperate and never get sick; and the world should drink Coke and live in perfect harmony...(Thank you  William Backer , may you rest in peace). I'd like to buy the world a home And furnish it with love Grow apple trees and honey bees And snow white turtle doves I'd like to teach the world to sing (Sing with me) In perfect harmony (Perfect harmony) I'd like to buy the worl

I t started over a week ago. We were driving from the restaurant and Elizabeth innocently asked what I wanted for Mother's Day. My answer wasn't pleasant nor complementary. The answer hinged on memories of past Mother's Days that were often thrown together affairs by the 50-cent husband with four daughters. "You're not my mother," he once joked. He paid for that joke for a long time. One Mother's Day I asked for white fencing around our ugly metal fence to hide the backyard. He got it, but sulked the entire weekend. It's not a pleasant day for me to me honest, until I get to visit my mother. Usually some of my sisters, their families, and my family have brunch or dinner with Mom. The younger cousins run around playing, and the older ones hang around the dining room table chatting with the adults. It's really very pleasant. But mornings on Mother's Day are typically ugly. Les throws together his version of Eggs Benedict, bacon wit

What happened after Les and I parted from the cruise? We married, but not right away... After our final good-byes, we boarded the airplane. Notice, airplane. We boarded the same airplane, but Les was in first class, and I was in coach. "He'll come back and talk to me." I felt pretty smug, especially after he had seemed so desperate to get my phone number on the shuttle. One hour, two hours, three...No Les. "Hmm, probably found a beautiful, first-class woman to sit next to," I thought, annoyed. "Time to go to the bathroom, the front one so I can peak in on him." Mary Jane didn't think that was a great idea, especially since I probably had to climb over her. As I waited for the bathroom vacancy sign to light up, I carefully pulled aside the blue, first class divider curtain . There he was, alone, sleeping. That was the last time I saw him on the trip. That evening, back in Wisconsin, my astute (or maybe nosy) sister, Ann, asked if I had

C ome in! Come in! Welcome to our home. The couch sags and smells like dog and old cigarettes, the kitchen ceiling is caving in, and our laundry room doubles as an ice-house in winter. Food’s good, and the company is fair. You might find yourself relaxing a bit once you move away from the dripping ceiling and off of the malodorous couch.       Fifty-cent Mom?  Not a dollar? Not a million? Why fifty-cents? One time I wrote the wrong amount for a family campout. When we got there the organizers said, “You’re fifty-cents short.”      Fifty-cents short. Fifty-cent Mom. Nothing brilliant - just the sense that some days I come up short- not a lot, but fifty-cents. Everywhere I go I feel like I come up short. I’m rarely perfectly attired (the iron and I don’t see eye to eye), I rarely speak eloquently since my foot is often stuck in my mouth, and I’m not really comfortable at parties despite dancing on the tables. I’m a writer, but still fifty-cents short (I’m still getting more rejectio