We never stop wanting our mothers. That is probably our first and last longing. When I cared for patients in times of pain and need, they often called out for their mother’s comfort. We want out mothers when we are giving birth, traumatized by pain or events, and at the moment of death. Many times I have held the hand of elderly patients whose mothers had to have been long dead and had the patient call me “Mother.” I never corrected them. Who am I to say it wasn’t their mother they saw as they moved on.
Thank you, Sally
Welcome to the Posts from Your Archives, where bloggers put their trust in me. In this series, I dive into a blogger’s archives and select four posts to share here to my audience.
If you would like to know how it works here is the original post:https://smorgasbordinvitation.wordpress.com/2019/04/28/smorgasbord-posts-from-your-archives-newseries-pot-luck-and-do-you-trust-me/
Linda Bethea is a regular contributor here on Smorgasbord, but this time I get to select the posts from her archives to share with you… I am sure you will enjoy her stories as always. For her post I am going back to 2014 and Linda’s recollections of bringing her new baby home and the ensuing mayhem.. I am sure that many of you can relate!
Baby Blues by Linda Bethea
We were a good couple. Long before we got married, we agreed completely on important things…foreign policy, religion, life plans. Then we got married. Life was idyllic. We were both…
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and now for that joke…. The Job Applicant A local business was looking for office help. They put a sign in the window, stating the following: “HELP WANTED: Must be able to type, must be good with a computer and must be bilingual. We are an Equal Opportunity Employer. A short time later, a […]
Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends
We went places and saw people that most people would never encounter. Daddy had heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying. He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might disappear into nothing. Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack. Mr. Tucker was wearing overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, old washing machines and other refuse behind their house, Mother and the kids sat in the car. It was hot. Daddy was gone. It got hotter. Daddy was still gone. We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling. Mrs. Tucker…
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Being an Indian, I often find people living around me accuse the Europeans and the Americans to be racist and hostile towards our ethnicity. Of course there are some people who are racist towards our ethnicity.The recent example being the whole T-Series vs Pewdiepie saga where people have turned aggressive against Indians calling them names and stereotyping them.When asked why do they do so, they say its just a joke. I want to tell them that being racist and disrespecting a certain ethnicity just cannot become a reason for laughter. However, I believe that such people constitute a very small amount when compared to the whole.
However, we Indians ourselves are racist in some way or another. For instance people living in Northern India are racist towards those living in South and vice-versa.People living in one part think that people living in the other part are uncultured, dirty and egoistical…
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I think we all have “family talk” that outsiders don’t get.
A much-used phrase in our family is, “I don’t like what I wanted.”
It was first uttered by my little niece, Chelsea. She had a quarter and spent the morning begging her mother to walk her to a nearby store to put the quarter in a vending machine for a prize. As soon as her afternoon nap was over, off they walked for her prize. Upon popping her quarter in, a capsule with a lizard dropped in her hand. She hated it and smashed it to the ground.
“Chelsea, you’ve been wanting a prize all morning. Why did you throw it down?”
”I don’t like what I wanted!”
That line comes in so handy. You can use it referring to a car, a man, a job, or the new shoes that cramp your toes. We use it…
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My son is gifted in the hair department with more growth in his eyebrows than most men have on his head. I can’t wait for the ear hair to start.
Anyway, he didn’t know his sister’s phone number had changed and he sent her this photo of his beard progress along with several other outrageous texts last week. Some poor state worker who was assigned her old phone must has thought the Devil was stalking them. They may have even turned over a new leaf and gone to church today.
I’ve been spending a few days with my kids in New Jersey. I made this Raggedy Ann doll for my three-year-old granddaughter, Leda. I don’t think she was impressed, at all. She’s hooked on Superheroes. I guess I should have made it a cape.
Mama Milk My Goat
Whenever anyone in my family was feeling sorry for herself and expressing it to a point where it was noticeable, another member of the family could be counted upon to use the family saying for such occasions, “Well, Mama milk my goat,” we would say, and if the person’s nose wasn’t too far out of joint, they might snap out of it. Or, alternatively, stalk away to seclusion where they could fully feel the full extent of their misery without anyone trying to dissuade them from it. Why did we say this? Because my mother had told us all that it was what my grandmother, her mother-in-law, used to say.
My grandmother, a master at martyrdom, used to say it with a small uptake of breath, in a trembling voice. I can remember hearing her do so, although it may be that sort of childhood memory…
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