A woman in her eighties made the evening news because she was getting married for the fourth time. The following day she was being interviewed by a local TV station, and the commentator asked about what it felt to be married again at that age and would she share part of her previous experiences, since it seem quite unique the fact that her new husband was a ‘funeral director.’ After a short time to think, a smile came to her face and she proudly explained that she had first married a banker when she was in her twenties, in her forties she married a circus ring master, and in her sixties she married a pastor and now in her eighties, a funeral director. The amazed commentator asked her why she had married men with such diverse carriers. With a smile on her face she explained, ‘I married one for the… |
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My mother has a collection of toys some of which are more than fifty years old, not collector edition type toys, just old junky stuff like cheap plastic fire trucks, broken race cars, a metal tractor, a few green plastic army men, and a few leftover circus animals from a forty-year-old Fisher-Price Circus. The prize item is an articulated Tonto who is missing his right hand. He is forty-two-years old, and thankfully not anatomically correct since his pants are long-gone. Eight of the ordinal dozen ever-popular monkeys from a Barrel of Monkeys still survive along with partial can of battered pick up sticks. Except for the Barrel of Monkeys that belonged to my younger sisters, most were scavenged from my kid’s toys that were being tossed. Every grandchild and great-grandchild who has visited in the last forty-four years goes straight for this rag-tag collection and scatters them over Mother’s living room floor, no matter that most are in some stage of dilapidation. My nephew, age eleven, is pictured here playing earlier this week. Clearly, neither Mother, nor any of her descendants suffers from the sin of false pride.
Andrew Wharton was born to be a farm servant like his father and grandfather before him, the line extending back much further than anyone bothered to remember. His work was not a choice; he was born to work Hampton Grange and expected to die there. The only surprise was when pretty Molly Peace chose him. Ecstatic in his luck, he couldn’t believe the rollicking dairy maid favored him above all the hopeful lads pursuing her when he’d done no more than sneak shy peeks at her in Chapel. The confusion of love and glorious sensuality overwhelmed the young man who’d never contemplated the possibility that life could hold pleasure. Molly saw joy in everything, the sweet breath of the cows she milked, the warmth of the sun on her face, and the sweet sent of the hay she bundled, not seeming to notice the manure in the cow’s tail, the slogging rains, or the sneezing brought on by the hay.
As Mother and I were out and about the other day, she spied a toddler with magnificently braided hair. No child of two could have ever sprouted a head of hair like that. Mother was enchanted, unaware of the fashion options available to folks nowadays. She made a beeline for the child, even lifting a braid to examine it. I was worried it might come off in her hand. The whole time she was praising the beauty of the child and the hair to high heaven. The child’s parents, confused by this display from a frail octagenerian, fortunately didn’t attack Mother in defense of thei child, while I stood behind Mother, twirling my finger around my ears and crossing my eyes to indicate she was demented. Catching my sign, they friendlied up to Mother while rescuing the child and her hairdo. It was just another day out with Morher!
Nutsrok 