My mother died in 2004 from an excruciatingly rapid progression of Lou Gehrig's disease (symptoms began to manifest in the Spring of 2003; her death occurred in January). It's been six years. The grief isn't fresh, and it's not even near, but it's still accessible. Accessibility is in grief's nature. If new grief is the laceration spouting blood, then old grief is the long, itchy scar that sometimes flares. And there are as many things that can palliate it as can enflame it.
But today, I'm gonna balm that wily cicatrix by honoring the skill I am most grateful to have learned from her: how to laugh. I inherited my sense of humor from my mother, a sense of humor that's crass, often offensive, always puerile, and more times than not, originates in the bathroom. To wit: the last movie I watched with her was the third in the American Pie series, American Wedding. During the trimmed pubic hair scene (Google it if it's unfamiliar), she laughed so hard that the soda pop I was holding for her to sip through a straw came out of her nose. That's how she rolled, my momma.
So in memory of Gloria Ann Steinmeyer Schulz Hale, I lovingly offer this irreverent, inappropriate pun, written especially for her. Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you.
"Didya hear about the woman in New York state who kept giving birth to haunted babies?"
"Damn. That's an eerie canal."
