The Green Burrito (Part One)

My grandson and I are at the White Sands Missile Range for their annual marathon honoring the Philippine Deathmarch of World War Two. If you don't know what that is, you should look it up. It's a heartbreaking story, and is especially interesting to me because my father was stationed in the Philippines during WWII.

     When General Douglas MacAthur was forced to leave the Philippines, abandoning American servicemen and Philippine citizens to the invading Japanese Army in the process, he promised he would return. My father was one of the many soldiers who retook the Island and made sure he could keep his word.

     I have family who live nearby, and one of my sisters offered us a place to stay.

     I asked my grandson, "Do you want to stay at a hotel or at your aunt's?"
     He look at me with his little five-year-old eyes, and answered, "Basically, I will stay at my aunt's and you can stay at the hotel."
     Basically?
     Funny kid.
     On our drive down, we stopped at a well-known hamburger franchise. I stopped there because, on an outside sign, it advertised: "The Green Burrito."
     "Hmm..." I thought to myself. "A green burrito. That sounds good."
     What I thought it was, was a chili verde burrito made using an organic tortilla.
     I made my way to the counter, and when the cashier asked me what I wanted, I ordered a green burrito.
     "A green what?" she said.
     "A green burrito," I repeated.
     "What's that?" she asked me.
     I lifted my arms--hands forward, palms up--in the international sign for you-tell-me.
     "I don't know," I had to admit, "but you're advertising it outside."
     "Ohhh!" she said. "The Green Burrito!"
     "Yes, a green burrito."
     "No," she explained, "it's not a green burrito, it's The Green Burrito."
     "Well, whatever it is," I told her, still not understanding, "I want one."
     After all this effort, I now knew that no matter what it was, I was going to be disappointed.
     "I'm sorry, sir," she apologized, "but it's not a green burrito."
     "Well... if your green burrito isn't a green burrito, then what is it?'"
     "It's the name of our special menu."
     What I didn't understand, and what she wasn't making clear, was that the hamburger franchise had a special menu that offered Mexican food, and they called this special menu The Green Burrito, as if it were a separate restaurant, and--you know what?--they didn't offer a chili verde burrito made using an organic tortilla.
     Yeah, I didn't understand it, either.
     Sometimes I'll look at my Dad, and then I'll look at the world, and I'll wonder, "Is it my Dad who's confused, or is it the world that's confusing him?" After my trouble ordering a green burrito that didn't exist, I'm inclined to think it's the world that's conspiring against those of us who are closer to the end of our days than the beginning.
     My grandson was happy with his burger and fries. Me, I was not as happy as he was. However, as long as my grandson is happy, I figure I came out ahead on the deal.
     We found our seats, and both began doing what we do best. In the case of my grandson, it's eating. In my case, it's people-watching.
     When you're out and about, you've probably seen and heard mothers bragging about their babies. They'll say how pretty their baby is, but, after sneaking a peek, you'll think to yourself, "Lady, what baby are you talking about?"
     This reminds me of a joke:
 

     The manager of a grocery store saw a lady crying as she pushed a baby stroller through the fruit section of his produce department. He goes up to her to see what's wrong.

     "Boohoo," the lady sobbed. "A man just told me I had an ugly baby."

     "Don't cry," the manager told her. "The man was a stupid jerk. I'm sure you have a beautiful baby."

     "I feel better now," she told him. "Thank you."

     "My pleasure," he said, "and here's a banana for your pet monkey."

 

    Well, there was a lady with a baby sitting in the booth next to us. She was cooing and sweet-talking the baby, saying, "Who's a pretty baby? Who's a pretty baby?"
     Meanwhile, another lady with another baby walked up to her. I don't know if they were friends, or even if they knew each other, but their infants gave them a bond. An annoying bond.
     "Oh," said the one, "your baby is soooo pretty!"
     "Oh," said the other, "your baby is soooo pretty, too!"

     They each spent the next few minutes telling each other how beautiful their babies were. I looked. Compared to my grandkids, their babies looked like something from Planet of the Apes. Then the one-upmanship started and they began bragging about their little changos.

     First lady: "My son is only six-months-old and he wears clothes for an eight-month-old."

     Second lady: "My son is barely five-months-old and he wear clothes for a one-year-old."

     First lady: "My son is already trying to turn over."

     Second lady: "My son is already trying to crawl."

     First lady: "My son already talks."

     Second Lady: "My son already reads."

     First lady: "My son has read The Bible from front to back."

     Second Lady: "My son has big feet, and you know what they say about big feet."

     From there, the tales got thick. Very thick.

     By then, my five-year-old grandson had finished his burger and fries, and I was done with my not-a-green-burrito. The two of us stood up to leave. Both ladies stopped talking to look at my grandson. I couldn't blame them. He's a cute kid. Their nosiness reminded me that they were within hearing distance.
     I held the car keys out to my grandson.
     "Do you mind driving?" I told him. "I'm tired."

     "Sure," he said, taking the keys from me, and we left.

   
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

MY Predicament (Part Two)

For the holidays, Maloney's wife, Gail, likes to put out little bowls of candy for friends and family to help themselves to. This Easter, she's filled the bowl with peanut M&M's that are painted bright Easter egg colors.
     At the recent cookout he didn't invite me to but was telling me about, once all the steaks, chicken, and grilled veggies were done, he was inside doing what he does best. Talking.
     Down the hall, he saw his mother-in-law exit the bathroom. It reminded him that he hadn't seen her in a while. She must have been in there a long time, if you get my drift. She comes out with some toilet paper in her hand, and proceeds to blow her nose as she walks down the hall toward everyone. When she's done emptying out her snot-maker, she wipes the end of her nose and puts the toilet paper in a pocket. For later use, Maloney figures. My father does the same thing, except with a handkerchief.
     Apparently, her bodily functions must be like a car wreck to Maloney, because he can't stop watching her. He sees her walk into the room. He sees her walk up to the candy bowl. AND he sees her reach in with her hand for some candy.
     Maloney makes a mental note not to help himself to any more of the peanut M&M's.
     I can sympathize with my friend. My wife knows that if she puts anything uncovered on the table I will not eat any part of it. With my Dad's coughing, sneezing, and blowing of his nose, who knows what damage he leaves behind. So she has to separate anything that both my father and I might like.
     She puts my stuff inside the top cabinets, where he can't reach. I'm not saying my Dad is short. I'm just saying that he's not as tall as he used to be. Besides, reaching for something takes work. If my Dad has to make an effort, he'll just ask my wife  to get it for him instead.

     On the occasions he's asked me to get him something, I'll tell him, "In a second, Dad."

     He'll wait, and then one of two things will happen. One, he'll forget he's asked me to get him something, or, two, my wife will walk into the room and he'll ask her to get it for him.

     My wife will later ask me, "Why didn't you get it for him?"

     And I'll tell her, "He didn't ask me."

     And my wife will say, "I know you're lying, but I can't prove you're lying."

     Whatever happened to trust in a marriage?

     Getting back to food being left within my Dad's reach, the other problem is that his nose is always running. I mean it, it's always running.Sometimes he'll be eating and I'll see a drop of clear liquid getting ready to drip out of his nose. He'll wipe his nose, sometimes he'll even blow it, but two minutes later another drop has taken its place.

     When that happens, I'm out of there, taking my food with me.

     And don't get me started on how he continues to gargle his tea. (I said DON'T GET ME STARTED!) Even my wife has to walk away.

     "ARGHHHHH!" Gargle gargle, gargle! Gulp! "AHHHHH!" Sip, sip. "ARGHHHHH!" Gargle, gargle, gulp! "AHHHHH!" Sip, gargle, and drink some more.

     But getting back to my main complaint...
     "Why do you leave snacks out like that?" I'll ask my wife.

     "Because Dad likes to help himself," she'll tell me.

     "Only when you're not around," I'll tell her, and we'll both be at a stalemate.

     I can't fault her for wanting to do things for my father, and she understands a lot of food and snacks get thrown away because I won't eat anything after my father has had his hand in it. Now, just in case my wife ever reads this, let me just add that this is more a quirk on my part, than a problem on my Dad's.
     Just recently, I was at a restaurant. I went to the bathroom to do what one does in the bathroom, as long as one isn't ex-politician Larry "Wide Stance" Craig, and, after I was done, I walked over to the sink to wash my hands. Unfortunately, an elderly gentleman had beat me to it, so I stood waiting patiently behind him. He turned the handle for the water to come on, and, for some reason I still don't understand, he spat into the sink. It wasn't a pa-touie! kind of spit. What he did was lean over the sink and let saliva drip out of his mouth. Then he rinsed his hands, lifted a cupped hand of water to his mouth, rinsed, and spat out into the sink again.
     He turned off the faucet, dried his hands on his pants, and then walked out.
     I stood there.
     I needed to wash my hands for obvious reasons, but I didn't want to touch anything that man had handled. After some thought, I had a moment of insight. I would get a paper towel and use that to touch what needed to be touched.
     Only there were no paper towels.
     The dispenser was out.
     That's why the older gentleman had dried his hands on his pants.
     What did I do?
     Well, let's just say I did what I had to do, but I did it reluctantly.
     I am a very clean person, so there was no way I was going to leave that bathroom without having washed my hands first. My father is a very clean person, too. He goes for a walk every morning, and, when he gets back, he'll take a shower.

     Where he takes it to, I have no idea.

 
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

 

Maloney's Predicament (Part One)

"Can I borrow a crowbar?" my friend Maloney asked when he called me on the phone.
     "What for?" I asked him.
     It's not that I didn't want to lend him a crowbar, it was that it sounded like work, and, once I lent him the crowbar, he might ask me to give him a hand, too. I'm old-school. People should solve their own problems.
     Unless I'm the one who needs help.
     "I need it to get rid of some dead weight," he said, and then, without any encouragement from me, he began his tale of woe, "We were grilling some steaks for my daughter's birthday this past Saturday and made the mistake of telling my wife's mom."
     The daughter he was talking about was his youngest, Abby. His wife's name is Gail. If you remember, Maloney's elderly mother-in-law moved in with him and his family, and then, just as quickly, moved out. She enjoyed the same foods and snacks as Maloney, so, when my buddy was in the mood for something, it was usually already eaten.
     "We were going to grill at five," he continued. "She got here at two.

     "Part of the reason she moved out was because we wouldn't let her drive. She's in her 80's and can't see, but she still wants to drive. Let her try that back in Mexico and see what happens."
     A small town in Mexico is where his mother-in-law was born and raised. I would tell you the name of it, but you wouldn't even be able to find it on Google Maps.
     "Anyway," Maloney said, "she doesn't like to drive when the sun goes down because her vision is especially bad at night. So we grill, and then we eat, and then it's six, and then it's seven. The sun's starting to go down, but she's making no effort to go home. It gets later and later, and darker and darker. Personally, even after it's dark, I keep hoping she's still going to leave. If she can't see when she drives at night, well, that's the problem of all the other drivers who've made the mistake of driving on the same road as her. I keep hoping, but I can see the writing on the wall. She's fed, it's dark, and she's not going anywhere. She'd rather inconvenience the world than be inconvenienced herself."
     Hmm... you'd think she was related to my Dad.

     "What is it about in-laws?" Maloney asked me. "Gail was planning on having a garage sale this morning, so earlier in the week she had invited her sister who had a lot of junk she wanted to sell. Gail was telling her about our plans for Abby, felt guilty, so she said, 'Why don't you and your family join us?'

     "They've never met a free meal they didn't like, so now I'm supposed to grill for them, too. Only, her sister got sick. She called Gail and told her that she and her husband wouldn't be able to come over for the garage sale. She's been sick. She has a fever, her throat hurts, and she just hasn't been well. It sounded to Gail like she was saying she wasn't going to come by for the garage sale, but was still planning on coming by for the steaks. So Gail asked her, 'You're not still planning on coming by later, are you?'

     "Her sister said, 'Well, I was hoping I'd feel better.'

     "And then Gail said, 'If you get the baby sick, I will shoot you dead.'

     "So her sister said, 'Well, I wouldn't want to get anybody sick.'

     "So they didn't show up for the garage sale or the steaks. We probably won't hear from them for a while, because they're thin-skinned and easily offended."
     I can testify to that, because I've met them. Why is it that the people who are so insensitive about the feelings of others are so sensitive about their own feelings? Only God, and Bill Clinton, know for sure.
     The baby he was talking about belongs to his middle daughter. A beautiful baby girl (and I'm not just saying that because Maloney owes me money) who's only about twelve weeks old.
     Maloney paused to take a breath, and then went on with his complaining... I mean, story.

     "But what gets me is that she was planning on coming over at all, knowing she was sick. Knowing that the baby had been in the hospital for five days when she caught bronchialitis and a respiratory infection. And it's not just her. People, nowadays, don't seem to care that they're sick. They go out anyway. Even in church, people will go and cough through the whole service. It doesn't occur to them to get up and leave. Maybe sit somewhere where there aren't any people. No, they want to sit in the middle of as many people as they can. When the priest tells us to shake each others hands, I pretend I'm busy picking my nose."
     I laugh.
     "Good joke, Maloney," I tell him. At least, I'm hoping it was a joke.

     "Gail and I were talking about it," Maloney continued, "and she told me that before her sister was sick, her husband was sick. Too sick to go to work, but that night they're out partying with friends, watching a football game or some such nonsense. She saw the pictures on Facebook.

     "'I thought you're husband is sick,' Gail asked her.

     "'He is,' she answered.

     "They're good people otherwise. When we moved from our last house to this one, they came by to pick up our old refrigerator that they bought from us. The husband had a flatbed hooked up to his truck, and while they were rolling the fridge up on it using a dolly, the movers called to tell us that they weren't going to be able to move us that day, but could do it the next. Well, Gail got real upset, but her sister and her husband said they and their kids would help us move. They already had the flatbed there. And that's exactly what they did. We moved all of our stuff from our old house to our new house.

     "So they're not bad people. Lord knows, I wouldn't have helped them move. 'I've got to see a man about a horse,' I would have told them. But they think nothing of going someplace where a new baby is and possibly getting the baby sick."
     I remember when Maloney moved to his new house. For some reason my phone wasn't working that weekend.

     "Which brings me back to my mother-in-law," Maloney sighed, coming back to his main gripe after his long detour. "It doesn't occur to her to leave while there's still daylight. It's not like we had a mariachi band playing or anything. For a second, I thought she was Hillary Clinton because she just didn't want to go away.

     "'Isn't your mom going home?' I asked Gail, knowing what the answer was, but asking anyway.

     "'She can't drive when it's dark!' Gail scolded me.

     "I wanted to ask why not, because everybody's got to die sometime, but didn't. So her mom ended up spending the night. And guess where she's sleeping?

     "In Lizzy's and the baby's room!"
     Lizzy is Maloney's middle daughter who still lives at home. She made the mistake of getting pregnant by some guy who's idea of dealing with an unwanted pregnancy is changing his phone number.

     "I asked Gail, 'Why's she sleeping in Lizzy's room?'

     "'Well, where else is she going to sleep?' she told me.

     "The plan was she would sleep in the same bed with Lizzy, and hopefully her snoring wouldn't wake the baby up. I thought a better plan would be she'd sleep in Boswell's room, and Boswell could sleep on the living room couch. He could do without choking his chicken for one night."
     Boswell is Maloney's step-son. I don't know anything about his chicken-choking habits.

     "God forbid it should occur to Boswell to offer his room to his grandmother," Maloney groused, "and God forbid it should occur to his grandmother to offer to sleep on the living room couch. C'mon, she was born in Mexico. Sleeping on a couch is what the rich people of her village used to do, and she certainly wasn't rich. She was so poor she couldn't even afford to change her mind."
     I laughed, even though I had heard that joke before. When Maloney finds a good joke, he sticks with it.

     "So poor Lizzy would have to fuss with two babies instead of one.

     "So I told Lizzy, 'Why don't you and the baby sleep in our bedroom, and I'll sleep on the couch and your mother will sleep with Abby.'

     "At first my daughter said no, that it was okay, but the baby was being kind of fussy--heck, she probably didn't want her grandmother sleeping there either--so Lizzy finally agreed, and from the living room couch is where I'm calling you from. My faithful dog by my side."
     "What about your mother-in-law?"
     "Her? She still hasn't left."

 

 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.blogspot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

 

The Bacon Story

My Dad eats like a king. Every day. ALL day. Courtesy of my wife.
     This morning, I watched my father sit down at the kitchen table and I continued to watch as my wife served him his five-star breakfast.
     She served me next.
     "What's this?" I asked her. What was on my plate wasn't exactly cottage cheese and lettuce, but it wasn't far from it.
     "Talk to your doctor if you have a complaint," she told me. I guess she treats me like a king, too, but in a different way. A way that includes less food.
     I'm a pretty healthy guy, but my doctor wants me to bring my cholesterol down a peg or two. He gave me the choice to either do it with a pill or with my diet. I first tried the pill, but stopped when it began to make the left side of my face feel numb.

     "Are you buying cheap bacon?" I heard my Dad say.
     I looked up and noticed that his distaste for the bacon hadn't slowed his eating of it.
     "This bacon you served me isn't any good," he told my wife between chomp, chomp, chomps. "It's getting stuck between my teeth."
     His teeth, let me remind you, are 96-years-old. I'm pretty sure  it wasn't the bacon that was the problem.
     He picked up one of the strips between his thumb and forefinger. It was crisped to perfection. He inspected it like he was some kind of food scientist.
     "It's not the same," was his professional determination.
     "The same as what?" I asked him.
     "The same as before."
     "Before what?"
     "Before!" he said, his old man arms flying all around. "Before! The one you used to buy before."
     I was just giving him a hard time. My wife knew that, but she still arched an eyebrow in my direction.

     "It's the same bacon," she tried telling my father.
     "No, it's not," he said.
     "Yes, it is," she said.
     "No, it's not," he told her.
     "Yes, it is," she told him. "It's the same brand, the same cut, the same everything."
     "It's not."
     "Dad," she said, getting flustered, "it's the same bacon you've been eating for the last five years."
     I wanted to add the words "FOR FREE," but decided against it. I don't know why, but it's always the people who pay the least who complain the most.

     My Dad told her, "I don't think so. I know it's different bacon. It doesn't taste the same. Besides, it's TOUGH. You must have bought some cheap bacon."

     My wife is usually very patient with my father, but he has given her halo quite a workout these last few years. She opened the kitchen trashcan, reached in, and pulled out the packaging the bacon came in. She showed it to my father.
     "See?" she told him. "It's the same kind of bacon you ate yesterday."
     My Dad took the packaging and looked at it.

     "Just because you're showing me this wrapper, that doesn't mean this is the bacon I'm eating. You could have served the good bacon to your husband, and given me the cheap kind."
     He pointed to my plate. It was suspiciously empty of bacon.
     "Dad," she pleaded, "it's the same bacon. Why would I lie to you?"
     My Dad's eyes started to bulge out. It does that when he's at a loss for something to say. He looked from my wife, to me, and back to my wife.
     "Are you calling my wife a liar, Dad?" I asked him, giving my wife a wink.
     "Ahh... hmm... welllll..."
     He let out a long sigh.
     "Well, I don't like it," he said, finally. "Don't serve it to me anymore."
     "Okay, Dad," my wife told him, giving in to his nonsense.

     What would I have done? I would have gone out and bought the cheapest, ugliest road kill bacon I could find and served it to him...
     ...but not my wife. She's a saint.
     She must have felt guilty, because later that day she went out and bought my father the best, most expensive $au$age my money could buy. If Donald Trump eats sausage, this is the kind of sausage Donald Trump eats.

     The next morning my wife made my father a breakfast sandwich just the way he likes. She made it with the sausage she bought and served it to him using our finest china and fanciest silverware. It was a breakfast sandwich Wolfgang Puck could only dream of making.

     "Sausage?" my father griped between bites. "Why didn't you use the bacon you gave me yesterday? It was pretty good."

     My wife looked for me, but I was already leaving the kitchen.
 
 

Raising My Father

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Happy Birthday! (Sorta)

Tonight my family--that is, my kids and grandkids (the one's that I know of, that is [heh, heh])--are having a surprise birthday dinner for my wife and I. The preparations usually consist of our pretending we don't know about it, and their pretending we don't know about it. But really, my and my wife's birthdays are ten days apart, so any dinner or event we're required to attend at this time of year has to have something to do with our birthdays, 'ja think? It doesn't take Michio Kaku to tell me what time it is.
     (Heh, heh... I said kaku.)

      My Dad's bad memory only seems to flare up when there's a birthday or anniversary to be celebrated. I'm not saying he's cheap. I'm just saying he doesn't care to spend the money or exert the effort to buy anyone a gift. Me, in particular. That was my mother's job, I guess, and she took it with her to the grave.
     However, there was a time when my Dad would get angry if someone would even beat him to the check at a restaurant. I remember one time my wife and I, before we were married, invited my Dad and Mom to dinner to celebrate our engagement. Since we had invited them, we (mainly my future wife) thought it was only fair to pay for the (very) expensive meal. So, when the waiter brought the check, under the condemning eye of my fiancé, I quickly snatched it up.
     "Give me the check, son."
     "No."
     "Give me the check, son."
     "No."
     My Dad got pissed. He didn't say anything to be rude, but he also didn't say anything to me for the rest of the night.
     Well, that was then, and this is now. These days, he doesn't even pretend to reach for his wallet to pay for anything. Whether we're at a restaurant or at Costco. If I told you the number of different items we have in our refrigerator or pantry or bathroom that my wife has bought for him, that he hasn't eaten or used, you'd call me a liar.
     And I don't cotton to being called a liar.
     So yesterday I tried to hand him a birthday card while explaining that it was his daughter-in-law's birthday on Friday and he should fill it out and give it to her.
     I say "tried," because he acted as if I was trying to serve him a warrant. When he finally takes it, he looks at it like I've just handed him my mortgage bill. He looks at the card, turns it over and looks at the back side. He turns it back around and looks at it again.

      "You say it's what?" he asks me. The words "Happy Birthday" are right in the front. What's not to understand?

      "It's my wife's birthday and it's a card you can give her?" I answer him.

      "Who's birthday?"

      "My wife. Your daughter-in-law. Tomorrow's her birthday."

     My Dad continues to  stare at the card.
     "Mumble, mumble, mumble. Grumble, grumble, grumble," he says. "Ahhhhhhhhhh... what?"

      "It's my wife's birthday tomorrow."

      "You say tomorrow? What's tomorrow?"
      "It's my wife's birthday."
     "It's whose birthday?"

      "Your daughter-in-law's!"

      Now he's acting like he can't hear. This from a man who can hear me whispering to my wife when he is sitting in his--my--favorite chair in the great room watching baseball on TV with the volume knob turned to 11, and my wife and I are in the garage, doors closed, car engine running, our grandkids screaming, and I whisper to her, "Let's go to Costco."
     "What?" he'll yell from where he's at, already getting up, putting on his shoes, and looking for his favorite old, gray sweater. "You're going to Costco? I sure like them cream puffs and corn dogs. Yeah, boy,  I can taste them now," as he ah, ah, ahhs, we, we, wees, and smack, smack, smacks.
     But back to the present...

      "Your wife?" he says, giving me a look like he doesn't know who I'm talking about.
      "Yes! My wife! You know, the person who loves you and cooks for you, gourmet four course meals three times a day! Washes your clothes, pays for the maid to clean your house, and buys you everything you want on my dime! Treats you like a king and serves you like a slave! Blah, blah, blah, and on and on."
     Well, that's what I was thinking, but, being the good son that I am, I held my tongue.
     I stood there. Waiting.
     My Dad stood there. Looking.
     I stood there some more.
     So did my Dad.
     I looked at him.
     He looked at the card in his hands.
     "Birthday, huh?"
     "Yeah, birthday."
     If he thought he was going to out-wait me on this one, he was wrong.
     Like any good salesman, I put the contract in front of him, handed him a pen, and waited for him to sign it. If you wait long enough, and don't say anything, most people will sign just out of awkwardness. You do understand that that's just a metaphor, right?
     Of course you do.

     After several minutes of going back and forth--me looking at him, him looking at the card--he walks away.
     Mumble, mumble, mumble.
     Grumble, grumble, grumble.
     Ahhhhhhhhhh...
     I won!
     Sorta.

  
 

Raising My Father

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jimduchene.BlogSpot.com  American Chimpanzee

@JimDuchene

 

Happy Birthday (Kinda)

My Mom, when she was alive, was amazing.
     With all the kids and grandkids and grandkids she had, she never forgot a birthday. Especially mine. My birthday presents began with the Man From Uncle spy camera that turned into a gun, then, as the years flowed by, they slowly morphed into cash.
     "For a comic book," she told me when I was a boy.
     "For a book," she told me when  was a man.
     If what you love is where your heart is, then she always knew where my heart was.
     When she passed on, that was the end of the toys, the books... the cash. But every ending has a beginning, and that was the beginning of my Dad's coming to live with me and my family. And I haven't seen a birthday present since.
     I sure do miss my Mom.
   
 

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