We laughed when Mom sprayed “Raid” under her arms by mistake. She flapped around the bathroom like a frantic chicken while my brothers and I watched the show, clicking the cameras of our memories.
We would have such fun in the coming years, retelling the story of “scatter-brained old Mom” whenever we got together.
Mom smiled indulgently at our snorts and chuckles. Her eyes bounced along our faces in turn, lifting her eyebrows sternly.
“Wait…” she intoned. Wait for what? We didn’t know and we didn’t care. It was just funny.
We howled when Mom preheated the oven to 325 degrees for three hours, forgetting to put the stew inside. Supper that night was bologna sandwiches with giggles as thick as ketchup on top.
Mom let us have our fun; a wry smile curled her patient lips. “Just wait…” she repeated.
We were too busy making jokes to pay attention. “Poor ol’ Mom—she’s losing it. Must be tough to get OLD!” We shook our heads in mock sympathy and elbowed each other’s ribs.
Getting ready for church one Sunday, Mom checked every room in the house for her purse. “It has to be here somewhere.” Her voice echoed frantically from various rooms as she searched.
We sat on the couch with our hands clamped across our freshly-washed faces to smother the hilarity that rose like geysers in our throats. She didn’t feel the purse banging against her side. It hung from her shoulder, swaying and flopping as she charged through the house.
For the complete column, please see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard.