Humor
Eulogizing Mom
Mom died of cancer a couple of years ago. I was asked to write the eulogy and her favorite nephew, a preacher, read it with great poise and dignity. It was a nice funeral as funerals go, featuring songs she had written for the church choir, along with the handful of nice anecdotes about her opera career which I had pieced together in the middle of that night. I suppose she might have liked it, but I've come to realize if you are concerned with your own eulogy, you should probably write it beforehand.
Recently, however, I have been remembering things about Mom you don't say at funerals. Things about people's character that are forgotten as soon as their soul shoots through the ceiling. Things like grocery shopping.
Lord help the grocery cashier who rung an item at the wrong price. I remember her operatic soprano complaints to this day. The kind that beckoned a manager from his duties clear back in the stock room. Standing there, completely embarrassed, I'd shrink to hide behind the 80 pound bag of dog food for our miniature dachshund (a savings of nearly 2 cents a pound when buying a lifetime supply). Worse yet was when she would send me to find the sign that made her so adamant about her claim.
An eight year old doesn't pay much attention to whether a can of Del Monte French Cut green beans, 12 oz, was 39 cents or 49 cents, much more than what aisle it was on. (But I know today! I amaze my wife with every trip to the store and my ability to locate a can of peas with those little bits of carrot.) And this was not limited to mere grocery stores. This happened everywhere she dragged me. Somehow I escaped her lingerie shopping after one horrific visit and the search for the brassiere sale sign.
But these adventures pale in comparison to the moments I lived through during my teen years. Mom handled first aid like triage in the battlefield. I was a baseball player, and like all baseball players, I knew the misfortune of "The Injury" that may occur during a game. (To say it nicely, sometimes a cup just ain't enough!) In fact, at the age of thirteen, the game of baseball is played around "The Injury."
"The Injury." Every ground ball is life threatening. Every pebble a mortal enemy. This is the reason you see infielders picking up rocks and dirt clumps between pitches and the reason you see ground crews dragging mats around the infield in the middle of major league games. It's not to make it look pretty, it's a safety stipulation in their contracts.
My misfortune happened when I slid head first over a base and the world went blank. Upon reentering the world, I found myself lying on my back in the bleachers. There, with every pretty girl of the eighth grade watching, Mom was applying ice to my highly bruised pride while my pants were pulled down around my knees. My father, a man of very few words, leaned over and whispered, "You best shake it off before she applies a tourniquet!" Or was it, "shake it off, or cut it off!" I'm still not certain. Whichever it was, I will not share with you my nickname for the rest of junior high. However, it was a good thing when Dad was transferred shortly afterward.
But changing cities did not change Mom. My last teenage memory occurred during my high school graduation. After the ceremony, like every other kid, I was proud to introduce my friends to my parents. Despite all, they were still my parents and I was fortunate to have ones that cared so much. So I proceeded: I introduced Mary, the girl I had taken to the prom. And Mom, in her own Mom way, said to her, "So you're the Mary he talks about in his sleep!"
I swear I never saw it coming! Clear out of the blue and not a big bag of dog food in sight. So I spent my graduation night, again, applying ice to my pride.
In my adult years that followed, there were other Mom instances which I suppose are a small part of the reason I have two ex-wives. In the end, there was peace between us but, oh what a eulogy I could have written. Though I don't suppose the favorite nephew would have delivered it quite so eloquently, or the church choir sounded quite so melodious.
Mike is a freelance writer in Fort Worth, Texas. He was a retail manager for 20 years. He has one big dog and still enjoys baseball, but ignores the opera. He has remarried a third time for ten years now, after finding a girl just like Mom. It was not Mary. You can E-mail Mike at NOVL Swan. Please include your date of death if requesting a eulogy.
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