On Mother's Day 2012, all the kids and their families came over. Everyone was together at the same time under one roof. We often poke fun at how hard it is to round up our brood, saying it's like herding cats. Well, it is.
Eight adults, one teenager, a toddler, one baby and five fur children. The house quickly filled with sounds of clanging pans, clapping dishes, clinking silverware and chattering voices. There's no music more wonderful than the sound of adult children home again.
It would have made a good picture.
So would have the day my little grandson Oliver squished his bare feet in sand for the very first time. That day, he was baptized into a whole new world of discovery: squeezing sand particles between his curling toes, clenching two handfuls, while volunteer sand slowly sifted through his small fists.
Should have taken a picture.
Same goes for the one and only time my father and I actually mourned over his absenteeism. He was gone so much of the time when I was a child you could say Mom was a single parent. Really. The catalyst for such grief letting was my perpetual need to get to the bottom of things. I always say, locate the root cause of an issue and do something about it. That's what I was doing. It opened the floodgates.
My dad and I, we cried pitifully that day. Hugged each other, felt sorry over wasted years of not being together, years not talking, not connecting, not sharing. After that, we were at peace.
I wish I had a picture of the store clerk's face when she received a mother's day bouquet at work from her son in Ohio. It put her in such a good mood she gave discounts all day. I could tell it made her happy by the smile on her face, the way her eyes sparkled and her springy motion.
Did you see how the sunbeams forced their way through those storm clouds the other night? Like new found hope, when everything on the horizon has lost its promise – the sun eventually shines through again. I wish I had my camera.
First blossoms are on the tomato plants. And from the looks of it, we'll have plenty of cherries and apples to put up in the fall. Both trees are loaded. Prairie roses are blooming, too, so are the lilies. I wish you could see them.
I'll send a picture.
Watching eight goslings waddle behind two sets of Canada geese was a sight to behold. So vulnerable and obedient. Weren't we all once? And then we matured. Grew away. Yes, we stopped listening to our parents. Had families of our own.
Those baby geese will, too, that's for certain. The cycle continues. Gone are the days of innocence, when our kids ran into our arms; a time when they couldn't be without us, not for a minute. Wish I had captured that on film.
Years ago, we never heard the "F" word, except maybe once or twice in a full-length R-rated movie at the cinema.
Back then, we never overheard that word on the street, let alone spoken by some 14-year-old boys pedaling their beat up dirt bikes to the corner store. I saw them with their lanky overgrown legs and gangly arms totally disproportionate to their torsos.
Heard them, too. Foul language spewing from their mouths. Like dragon fire, it seemed to power them in a weird sort of way.
There was a time when we didn't have to hear such language, when respect was understood and manners were minded. I so wish I had a picture of that.
2012 © Copyright Paula Damon.
A resident of Southeast South Dakota, Paula Bosco Damon is a national award-winning columnist. Her writing has won first-place in competitions of the National Federation of Press Women, South Dakota Press Women and Iowa Press Women. In the 2009, 2010 and 2011 South Dakota Press Women Communications Contests, her columns have earned eight first-place awards. To contact Paula, email boscodamon.paula@gmail, follow her blog at firstname.lastname@example.org and find her on FaceBook.