For the first time in my experience on word.press, the “New Post” took forever to load. It might have been one of those Guardian Angels tugging on the cyber connection with the intention of saving me from myself. Good try.
But no cigar.
If you, Gentle Reader, were/are a Star Trek fan you have seen Ricardo Montablan spew wrath all over that Star Ship. He was one mean puppy and his wrath came close to scuttling the bridge. So get that picture of Ricardo vs. Captain Picard. Feel the drama. Sense the anger.
Now get out that math thing that takes numbers to a power of max. That approaches my anger.
Someone just made a huge mistake. In an attempt to insult something I had said and done, “You are just like your mother” was spat at me. ( Spat is a strange word, but I think spat is the past tense of what a snake does with venom.)
My mother had steel and grit. She was quiet and slow to anger accepting that life had lumps. Get those lumps out, open them up, clean the mess and move on…a ‘mom’ kind of thing.
She cleaned, sewed school uniforms, ironed, cooked, canned, gardened, did the laundry on a wringer washer with tubs for rinsing. The ‘dryer’ was a long rope stretched across the back yard. And she had a full-time job in a law office. After that full day as office manager, she came home to run a household, raise five children and be a wonderful wife to my dad. Dad always came first.
For a time, Mom took both her parents into the home, caring for them until her health could no longer handle the burden.
Mom nursed Daddy through his final cancer from the beginning surgery, through radiation, the feeding tubes and to that final gut wrenching good-bye. Grit and steel.
Granted, she was no easy task-mistress, but she loved us and worked with Dad to provide a few nice clothes, a Catholic education, nutritious food and gifts for birthdays and Christmas. (If you read Lent Revisited you know that Easter Baskets happened, too.)
Mom did not gush, but she welcomed friends to our home. At those times when Mom was too tired to visit with our friends, she still smiled as she went about whatever task needed doing.
If being like my mother is an insult, then I stand tall and proud in that insult. I will wear it with intense pride.
And I fear that I will be very slow to forgive the intention to insult. Wonder what Mom would say about that?