>La Grande Observer | Union and Wallowa Counties' News Leader

My mom is a dear, dear woman. And a phone call from her is like manna from heaven. But getting her off the line can be as hard as dressing a bull in a mini-skirt.

She’ll say, “I gotta go now.”

I’ll get up from the couch in the living room and walk toward the kitchen, ready to hang up the phone. Just as I’m about to say goodbye, she says, “Oh, and one more thing. Did you hear my locked mailbox got broken into?”

Don’t get me wrong. She lives 350 miles away, and every minute on the phone is precious. Besides, I worry about her safety with all the meth addicts and ID thieves running around the west side of Oregon.

I’ll walk back to the couch and sit down with a sigh. As soon as I’m comfortable, she’ll say, “It’s getting late. I better go now.”

I’ll struggle to my feet and stroll to the kitchen, slower this time, dreading the inevitable postscript. Just as I leave rug for linoleum, she’ll say, “Oh, and one more thing. ...”

I’ll mope back to the couch, heave a large sigh and sit down.

“Look at the time,” she’ll say. “I gotta be running.”

With Mother’s Day around the corner, it’s time we salute moms and their tireless efforts to wear out our ears — I mean, launch us on the right path in life. Sure, no mom is perfect. And some moms are better than others. But on their special day we need to remember all the atrocities Mom hung on the refrigerator while making a fuss as if Junior were the next Picasso.

Face it. Anyone of lesser character would have lost their appetite looking at the “log truck” that more closely resembles a whistling pig.

For a while Mom had me convinced that I could be anything I wanted to be. An artist. An astronaut. A doctor. A firefighter. Then I ran head-on into calculus and a brick wall called reality.

My mom has had a special year. Ten years after my dad died at age 70 from the bone cancer multiple myeloma, she remarried a special man. The gaping void of loneliness has been filled. Her voice bubbles with enthusiasm as she plans for the future. When you’re rapidly reaching 75 and your new husband is in “bonus time” at 82, you start counting your chickens before they’re hatched, just because.

Having lost a portrait album of close personal relatives these last few years, I no longer take life for granted. It’s a gift that must be unwrapped each day. Every hawk riding a thermal current, every spring stream gone berserk is precious.

I also no longer take Mom for granted. That’s why I started Mom’s Day. For me it occurs not once a year but every Monday. I try to give Mom a call, if she is not out gallivanting with her new husband on some adventure.

I make sure I allot plenty of time for the “And one more things. ...”

Mom carries with her a lot of family history and home remedies, and a call to her can be chicken soup for the soul.

But invariably I’ll be on the couch and she’ll say, “I guess I gotta go now.”

I’m a gullible sort. I fall for that line every time. I’ll pick myself up, shuffle toward the kitchen and stand near the phone jack.

Then she’ll say, “Oh, and one more thing. This new camera ...”

I’ll pack the phone back to the couch and sit down with a tremendous sigh.

Just as I get settled in, nice and comfortable, she’ll say, “Well, I better be going. Lou (the new husband) wants to go out for lunch, and he’s doing a Woody Woodpecker thing with his finger on his watch.”

I’ll struggle to my feet and ease toward the kitchen, knowing that this conversation is just getting warmed up.

“Oh, and one more thing. ...”

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