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Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

I wish I’d have hugged my mother more.

I’m a hugger, but I didn’t grow up in a family prone to hugging. Hugging was saved for visitations and funerals. If I saw family members hugging, I’d ask, “Who died?”

I’m not much for saying, “I wish I had.” It’s human nature to say, “I wish I’d gone to Bemidji State” or “I wish I’d have bought that 40 acres.” It’s wishing in vain. It’s historical worrying.

There’s nothing we can do about the past other than learn from it. But I wish I’d have hugged my mother more.

I was proud when someone identified or introduced me as “Lucille’s little boy Allen,” even when they did so when I was 25 years old. Mom was a wonderful mother. I could put my heart on the table and know that she’d never step on it. Every mother is a story to be set aside from all other stories.

I remember when my father reached the point where pills had become a constant in his life. Dad had a weekly pill organizer that corralled his pills for each day of the week. Mom bought two of those because they were on sale. She didn’t take any pills, so she put M&M’s in hers.

My mother bragged about me. She’d say things like this about her most recent child: “Allen has always been smart. He was just a toddler when he grabbed an electric fence. No one had to tell him to let go.”

Mom said things she apparently learned in Mom School. “Don’t sit there like a bump on a log. Make yourself useful.”

Mom took me to town (population 300) in the hopes of giving me an expanded world view. She’d tell me, “Take a jacket.” I’d protest that it was 91°. She assured me weather changes. It had done so before.

“We may not have much money, but we wear clean underwear.”

“Try not to get any blood on your good shirt.”

“Where is the good scissors?” Nothing on earth had the ability to hide like the good scissors. “If you fall out of that tree and break a leg, don’t come running to me.”

“If nothing else works, try doing it my way.”

I couldn’t always tell the difference between friends or relatives. There were many visitors to the farm. Mom said helpful things like, “She’s my third cousin twice removed and she’s my friend too.”

Houdini claimed he was going to return from the dead. My mother said, “If I ever come back, it’ll be in the daytime so I won’t frighten you.”

A mother can tell you all about yourself. I fell into the Le Sueur River frequently. It seemed nice, but it had a dark (and wet) side. My mother blamed my propensity for dropping into the creek on my Baptist genes. I was baptizing myself.

I thought I saw a UFO. I couldn’t even spell UFO. Who knows what it was? Maybe it was a prototype for a much-needed flying toaster. I reckoned it had traveled at 10,243 mph. My mother pretended to believe me.

She nearly cried when I gave her a painted rock and dandelions for Mother’s Day. I think it was because I gave her a painted rock and dandelions for Mother’s Day.

Mother was Uber before there was Uber. She’d pick me up anywhere and drive me anyplace. She did Uber one better. She didn’t charge me a cent.

Mom could fold a road map only one way — the wrong way. It would cause my father to sputter. Mother obtained a riding lawn mower. She didn’t need a road map as she mowed the lawn as if it were a race track. Trees trembled at the mower’s approach.

To Mom, a party was two people laughing at the same time. She called uncontrollable laughter finding a teehee’s nest with a haha’s egg in it. She never hosted a Tupperware party because

Tupperware encouraged leftovers. She maintained there is a trace of everyone on every face. Everyone looked like someone else. “Doesn’t he remind you of Ernie Borman?” she’d ask. I had to agree with her. I’d no idea who Ernie Borman was. Mom said, “I’m fine,” even when she wasn’t.

Teddy Roosevelt said, “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Mom agreed with that and thought happiness could be found in what we have.

My mother gave the world her smile. It’s still there in my memory.

I should have hugged my mother more.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday.