Mother’s Day WeekendPosted: May 11, 2008
Son #2 came from North Carolina for a Mother’s Day visit. That and to connect with a friend from high school who was home from Missouri to see his mom. “I probably won’t ever get to come again,” he said, “with gas prices being so high.” “We’d better do it up right then,” I said. Friday, we ate dinner at Brick’s; Saturday, we grilled flank steak; Sunday morning, we made waffles served with real maple syrup.
We did a few odd jobs in the yard together. Or he did a few tasks, and I supervised. He cleared some of the weeds that were blanketing my flowerbeds and choking out my perennials. In doing so, he pulled one of the invasive culprits and threw it at me. It stuck to my clothes. “It’s like velcro,” he said. His girlfriend told him that. We spent a few minutes throwing weeds at each other. Then he planted a camellia japonica, which was my Mother’s Day gift, in place of the holly that died in last summer’s drought. He owns climbing gear and used it to cut a few dead limbs from one of the old pasture trees — cows grazed on this land before I did.
This is the baby who climbed out of his crib way before he was one; climbed bookshelves in the den at ten months, fell and hit his head on a sharp corner of the coffee table and had to go to the emergency room; scaled the kitchen cabinets at two, sat on the countertop, and sneaked a cookie; started climbing an old TV antennae when he was three and got to the height of the house before I could get a scream out of my mouth … and then in eighth grade refused to go to the top of the Washington Monument because it was too high.
“Two hundred pounds is a lot to haul up this tree,” he said. I laughed and thought of the two pieces of pecan-encrusted tilapia and red mashed potatoes he’d eaten the evening before.
I was glad when he had both feet back on the ground.
Sunday morning, he took off for home in the mountains. Son #1 called; I’d gotten a pretty card from him. My husband left to go visit his mother. And now, peace.