Two sons’ starkly different accounts of their parents, Christopher Buckley – the only child of two charismatic – and complicated parents, and Joe Queenan – whose father’s continued existence threatened him and his sibling and who never goes to bed without a chair jammed against the door and a butcher knife next to his bed.
Mother’s Day is upon us in two weeks. Not every woman would be a mother, some by choice. But we have a mother, are all someone’s children.
My mom passed away when I was seven years old, few months shy of my first grade. For some (hopefully not many), the word ‘mom’ might mean very little and taken for granted. But for me, it meant great deal at the same time, hollow and foreign, recalling memories that I hardly remember.
During a port of call at Juneau, Alaska, on the look out up the Mount Roberts there was a family: grandparents, mom/dad and two youngsters. The young mother was on the phone, the young dad asked,
“Mon and Pap, would you like to take a picture?”
The elders turned back from the breathtaking views and smiled.
“Would you like to take picture with grannies?” He asked his children.
The youngster ran to them and hugging them tightly like hanging to their dear life.
I felt my tears were forming.