My Mother

When I was a boy, my mother told everybody I'd be an artist...I used to paint things, draw things, etc. My brother was the smart, successful, athletic one that would go on to make her proud, but I was the "artist", ie "this kid might be less than successful."

One small memory I've always kept for some reason, even if it was only a small moment, was one afternoon after Sunday dinner. I might've been oh, 10 or 11. I was doing the dishes by myself, the kitchen empty except for my mother sitting at the kitchen table, just relaxing looking out the window that was in front of me over the sink. I'm scrubbing dishes etc, neither of us is saying anything. I quietly start humming something, just kinda bopping my head ba-dum-bum-bum-bum-ba-dum-bum-bum-bum, just kinda bebopping for no reason. This shortly changed from humming to to pshaw-ing out loud the same rhythm with my lips, I had forgotten my mother was sitting there and was getting noisier. Then from outta the water in the sink I happened to pick up some brush, shaped like a paintbrush, as for putting a glaze on a barbecue I guess. I'm bebopping out loud, bopping my head, rinsing the brush off and without breaking rhythm all of a sudden thrust the brush to the window and give it a few slaps, as if I was painting on a large canvas, my slaps with the bursh accompanied by even louder scatting A BOW-BOW-BOW!  I hear my mother behind me cracking up, I turn around and she's laughing her head off. "Oh god, Greg," she laughed, "you're too funny."

Looking back I don't know if it was that funny, and it's a tiny moment in just any ordinary day, but I'll always remember it.  I'm probably always trying to find that moment.  That day is probably the story of my life.

Also - were it not for my mother, there would be no tennis racket spaghetti.