Unspoken SOPs

Unspoken SOPs

Toyota engines are quiet when they hum into the garage

But we know the sound, and we know what it means. 

Our snacks will grow cold on the tv trays, and my brother turns the volume down 

As I straighten my legs, pull my hem down, wipe off makeup, arrange my self

Into something vague and seamless

Without expression, nothing to be misconstrued 

We are wooden like the African statues in a Navajo basket sitting by her desk with chipped arrowheads and pots of colored wax

We are strange things she’s collected.

A lamp, some pens

And a typewriter

We are broken like the Japanese pottery on the shelves she built 

Herself

After the carpenter got fresh with her 

(he won’t know any more than I do what he did wrong)

We say the words we are supposed to say

The way we are supposed to say them

Like a prayer almost, a mantra, a spell,

And keep silent the phrases that rile her 

Don’t touch your face

Or cough or beep

Don’t act like people you don’t know. 

Sometimes there are new ones

And we clock them away on our own shelves we built in our minds

We store her life

Like an imprint, 

flash photography, 

the negative captured and brought to light. 

No one knows her like we do,

Far better than she knows herself.

No one shows as much care to tend to her every whim

But she is tricky and full of surprises.

She turns quickly and snaps 

No matter how hard we were trying, watching, paying attention

Or maybe we had slipped

We were just kids after all

Sometimes we messed up. 

It didn’t matter once it started.

And afterwards we’d sink back to our rooms, creeping quietly,

without doing anything with our hands

And close our doors 

Turn the radio low

And read 

Or cry or build things

Or just think

Imagining, dreaming

Letting go, taking off

In mental flight. 

We had followed the rules and observed the warnings,

And unhitching our minds was the tiny little reward we had for ourselves

Once we had secured 

A little way out among all the trees 

Of our unspoken SOPs. 

Psalm 6:06

I wrote a little love song for nobody/anybody during an icy thunderstorm this Sunday morning that I call "Psalm 6:06" for both the a.m. time and the scripture. 

There's lots of dips and dramatic crescendos and high notes. Thinking like... Grace Potter with piano? William Prince? Chris Stapleton? (excited face) not sure which part would be a chorus, if necessary maybe repeat the first three verses somewhere?

{I am not a songwriter, don’t know notes and proper formatting. Here goes anyway...}

"So take these

Rose

Colored

Glasses

From my Eyes

/

Show me the

Soul

you Hide

Behind all your

Lies

/

Make me see the

Color,

Feel the warmth

And hear the Beat

Show me what there

is Inside, in

between, and

Deep Beneath.

/

I’ll follow you down

Every

path you lead

Through the

Darkness

Through the Fear

and

Through The

Heat.

Cast your flames upon me

Bring me Hell’s dark,

Sweet

Relief

Fall into the

Shadows

with me,

Angel,

Fly with Me

(bridge)

//

And If I

Never

Find

my way back

Home

At Least I’ll

Follow

You

//

(return)

So show me what you

Got

Give me all the

Shy

Inside of You

I promise you

You’ll

Find

I’m a bit or

maybe sometimes 

Quite Like

You

/

And I’m not scared of

Finding

out the

Truth.

Tell me,

Angel,

how about You?"

Racing the Angels

In youth, I dreamed of racing angels, flaming creatures of blood and gold,
Velvet robes brushed my cheek in the starry void, 

And paper lips spoke my name.  I actually thought I could win.

For in that indigo night, my soul was tasked with carrying safe
A bag of heart-shaped apples, simple enough a burden,
But my fear rose among the flames and pushed me past all barriers,
Strong wings beating terrestrial winds, faster and faster, 
Pressing on to glory, to victory, pushing the Earth below me, 
Beneath these beating wings, on to the pressed pages of history 
As my soul soared unto the heavens and the Milky Way beyond.

But the angels cared not for that, and 

The bag was ripped from the beginning, 

but I didn't think to look. 
These treasures fell from my grasp even as I flew beyond them, 

dropping past my fiery feet in the stardust trail 

of vapor, stargazer lilies and crystallized wishes. 

The realization sucked my spirit from the heavenly path and down
Through a draining humanity that sewed my hopes to a lowly bond where I might

Raise my eyes to heaven and send my thoughts and prayers

forevermore on the ashes and sparks of the fire within, 
Always burning, forever on fire. 

And I tend this earthly post, a wizened, grey old woman, 
as the night-cold breeze brushes my cheek

and the bitter ashes rise like snowflakes among the sparks,
And I remember dreams I've had and the races I almost won.

At First Glimpse

My first memories are of sunlight, heat, and iron, of Daddy holding me steady while I sat astride a black mailbox welded to an antique wagon wheel spoke while Mama took our picture.  It was blazing hot, but I trusted them, and it only took a minute.  My next memory is of hills and and an old cellar covered in irises and a black & white dog who stayed at my side no matter what.  There were stones in a circle around our largest tree, a burned stump that resembled a howling wolf, and a rock-walled wellhouse that I was not to go near.  There were red & white Hereford cows who would come to the gate and eat grass from my hand, and there was sand in the field where my dog and I played at mudpies and castles while Mama and Daddy moved the irrigation pipe lines over 21 rows to set the water for the next cycle.  Back and forth across that field, they moved the water while I waited with sand pearls forming in the fat folds of my baby legs.  My dog stood guard, but there was nothing near to harm me.

I remember squatting by the break in the wood siding of the house, a mysterious gateway into the shadowy darkness beneath our pier & beam foundation.  "Kittalee, kittalee, kittalee," I called, my chubby fingers rubbed out beckoningly.  A mama calico had three kittens beneath there, somewhere, and I needed to love them.  Gradually, the blind trio opened their eyes and began to creep forth.  I could hear them, almost within grasping range, and their mama would nip them by the nape of the neck and pull them back to the safety of her welp.  Eventually, though, they became too bold even for her safe-keeping, and they dared to stare at the sunlight where the wood rotted away and come forth to smell the messages brought by this sticky-fingered child.  I scooped them up quickly and collected them in toddler arms, petting their heads, rubbing their cheeks, and cuddling them as only a fellow child could.  They took to me:  black-maned Fuzzy,  smooth, inky Lazy, and the calico daughter Spot.  We were kits together, growing in the sun on our grassy lawn with wishful dandelion heads, and there was seldom cause to creep back into the shade.  The old black dog guarded us like precious jewels, and nothing but wind bent the irises on the hill. 

There was a black wooden porch swing where I swung with Daddy on thunderous evenings during storm season, a cozy tv room where I watched the Watergate hearings and listened to Macbeth on record or Bach symphonies with Mama while she worked on her thesis paper, a kitchen that housed sweet Treetop apple juice, graham crackers, and macaroni & cheese, and there was my own little bedroom with the bandana bedspread, welded bookshelves painted red, and a broomstick held on chains & hooks that carried my clothes above the washer & dryer.  I had a toybox, hundreds of books, and a rocking chair; and, that was all I needed.

There was also a school where my parents taught and a little farmhouse where I stayed with the kids of other schoolteachers under the watchful eye of Mrs. Alice Brooks.  We raced to the mailbox each day and played with the Lite-Brite and the old saddle posted in the hallway.  Doors and cabinets were explored, but Mr. Leo Brooks was to be left alone in his tv room, oscillating fan setting his boundaries with a cooled sweep of air.  My only nemesis was a green-eyed girl named Misty, and we vied for the affections of a lean, hungry boy named Wayne.  He bravely ate everything set in front of him, and it was because of him (and to side-swipe Misty) that I followed him through spoons of stewed spinach and bitter slurps of grapefruit halves.  Love and nutrients were found to be equally disappointing, yet essential, and it was a sour-pussed face that gazed back at Misty Keith triumphantly.  She beat me soundly in the race to the mailbox every time, though, and I was hard put to de-throne her from the old red tricycle, usually resorting to biting, which only landed me in the timeout chair.

But the day would end with my parents bringing me home and the sun setting on lowing cattle, flourishing fields, a protective dog, and a creaky iron bed with verdant breezes blowing through the paned window, raised with a file in the sill, and shadowy moonlight and sweet magnolia.  These memories, feelings, scents and sensations will always be with me, safe like a locket at my chest.

Copperhead Grove

When my family jacked up the shotgun farmhouse and transplanted it to Desdemona, we plopped it smack down in the middle of a briar thicket that was home to a well-established nest of copperheads.  Dad cleared the oak grove dutifully and planted thriving St. Augustine among the mustang grapevines, and he often braved the dark, damp recesses beneath the pier & beam foundation to work on the plumbing (boy, he hated that, quite a bit more than he hated diving in the muddy green stock tanks to clear clogged pipes among all the water moccasins.)  While the creep factor involved in crawling in the dark beneath the house with copperheads and swimming in sightless brown water with water moccasins is easily understandable, I know my dad well enough to know that it bothered him that copperheads kept to themselves and avoided confrontation while "cottonmouths" were aggressive.  Dad hated disturbing those who were minding their own business and didn't want it done to him, either.

Our grove was not just shady, it was shadowy.  It was a sweet reprieve from the blistering Texas sun and sand, the gritty winds that blew against the house from the south field, and the usually rainless dustbowl that surrounded us like a doodlebug pit.  The day darkened among the leaves and the vines, and moisture trickled in delectable drops from the little rock waterfall Dad made for us to enjoy (though he said the sound of it made him have to use the bathroom at night.)  I don't think he minded it all that much, really.  I know those quiet moments at night when a wandering soul gazes out at the grove and appreciates the smell of green and the blessing of moonlight.  It's hard to resent lost moments of sleep when such a precious bit of night is yours alone.  One regards the astounding beauty of it all and nods one's head in silent respect for this nourishing morsel.  The sun will bring blinding brightness, searing heat, and relentless duty, but this one moment, pressed to the mossy bosom of earth, reminds a farmer of the love he has for his home.

Apparently, copperheads like it a great deal, too.  They are quiet fellows who blend seamlessly with fallen leaves and offer no indication of their presence except maybe the faint hint of cucumbers for no reason, far from the garden.  They dislike the spray of cats, and a tomcat is the best defense against a proliferation.  Even so, every summer, they have an orgiastic mating night, the likes of which I can only imagine in a Baptist blush.  One night, on my way down our road and past the cattleguard, I killed 8 of them within a quarter mile.  It was on these brazen nights the otherwise shy romeos would crawl up onto our porch and bask in the incandescent light, finally the better to be seen.  This was too much, though, and as long as we were awake, Dad kept his boots and Levis nearby so that he could run for a hoe and decapitate the interlopers.  They cannot be allowed to get up into the house like that baby rattlesnake that snuck in with a bag of pecans and gave fight in a corner, resulting in .22 pistol freckles on the hardwood floor.  A man has boundaries (and the missus still complains about her floor and the near miss on the antique piano.)  Some mornings brought a vision of squiggly lines draped over the barbed wire fence for the buzzards to clear away for us like some barbarian warfield.  Bloody hoes would be sharpened by the bastard file in the early eastern sunlight, with the filer's careful glance beneath the porch step to make sure no residual lotharios were warming themselves on the stone after a night of debauchery.

For 35 years, our families have coexisted, and it is remarkable that they wounded none of ours in the face of so many fallen to our defenses.  I played in that grove as a child.  I stepped bravely forth on any mission my capricious heart desired.  I married my husband beneath the largest oak.  I bring my babies to play in the luscious shadows.  It is the safest place on earth for me, and yet I cast a wary eye because I know that I share it with equally brave and defensive mothers.  We don't tread on each other, and perhaps, they are a bit more forgiving than we have been.  And someday, hopefully years from now, my ashes will be spread beneath that tree.  And I, well, truthfully, I hope it stings their snaky little skins, but I also hope that I fertilize  the soil that has nourished us both and allowed us to thrive, two families who respect each other and aren't so much different after all. 

 

  

Perros y Pinatas

The early morning sun glinted through gauzy curtains as my eyes adjusted to this newly awakened light.  Slowly, my mind made itself cognizent of various thoughts and facts, and I realized it was Mothers Day.  Delighted to have a chance to linger in the comfy quilts a while longer, I began to look back upon fond memories of my life with children.  There were so many beautiful moments and happy times, precious episodes of pure joy.  And for each of these, there were at least twice as many that were simply Episodes.  We go into motherhood with soft-focus expectations of love and beauty, but real life, though sweet, is also salty and suprisingly full of poop. 
For example, there was a particular birthday party for one of the little darlings that had a South American theme.  One of my brothers had recently returned from Brazil with gobs of ethnic toys, candy, and musical instruments.  He even brought one of the flouncy white dresses that are popular with the mamacitas as a gift for me.  I chose to wear it that day even though he had been away while I was busy growing yet another baby, and my ever-expanding belly jutted ostentatiously between what had become on me a too-small halter top and low-slung rows of ruffles.  Ever positive, I decorated and baked, thinking surely everything would be perfect on this glorious day.
Our home filled with children of all ages.  Nieces, nephews, & neighbors mingled with aunts & uncles, grandparents, family friends, and one of my husband's buddies from way back in his days with the band (I'm pretty sure that guy was under the influence when he showed up.)  The stereo played a samba while cake & treats made their way around the room.  Even our gentle pitbull who suffered from anxiety and irritable bowels enjoyed the delights.  Normally too nervous around crowds, he stealthily made his way under the radar, cleaning up plates of dropped cake and perhaps a few pieces of bubble gum. 
Everyone was having an excellent time, and we thought it could only get better when I brought out the bat and blindfold and announced that it was time for the pinata.  One after another, dizzy children swung wildly at the little pink donkey hanging from the banisters, laughing and cheering.  When my son finally whacked it hard enough for it to pop open, they all ran amok beneath it, eager to grab fallen candy.  Happiness soon turned to dismay as they realized there was no candy to be had.  Some searched along the floor while others gazed in confusion at the unproductive gaping donkey belly.  The room filled with raucous laughter as everyone realized what had happened.  I mouthed to the hubby, (Do they not come with candy in them??) and he replied helpfully, (I don't know - this was your idea.)  Known for my quick thinking, I grabbed the nearest bowl off the table, this one filled with chips, and threw it into the air while shouting things like "Hooray!"  and "Whoopee!!" 
The children were now thoroughly confused as chips rained down upon their heads.  The ones who were still looking up at the donkey got salt in their eyes and began to cry.  One tried to eat a falling crisp and choked.  While his mother raised his left arm and whacked him on the back, the wise lesbian aunt with no kids of her own was actually rolling on the floor laughing, holding her sides and getting chip crumbs in her hair, while the rest of the room maintained general uproar.  Therefore, no one noticed the shy dog slipping amongst them all, gobbling up the fallen snacks until one very young child went for a chip the dog had already claimed.  The sweet pitbull immediately yielded, but the toddler was spooked, anticipating an injury that didn't come to pass.  His wails alerted his parents, who had been certain it was dangerous and perhaps even criminally negligent to have such a beast at a children's party, and they flew into a frenzy of rage and fear.  So eager were they to find their child mauled, they began to strip him of all clothing, including his dirty diaper, in search of phantom wounds.  At the site of a completely naked, crying, slightly $#!t-stained child, my husband dialed 911.  My shrieks of "He's fine!  He's fine!!  Hang up the damn phone!" pealing through all the others screams, coughs, wails, cries, and (yes) still more laughter were not well received by the operator, and squad cars were dispatched.
Fortunately, or not as the case may be, one was in the immediate vicinity due to a call from an uninvited neighbor complaining of all the cars parked in our circle.  Law enforcement was soon at our door, busily misinterpreting the situation.  I've mentioned how shy and nervous our hound is, but he is a also a good and faithful guard dog.  Uniforms or not, the officers were clearly intruders, and one was already brandishing a baton, which perhaps even reminded the dog of the pinata bat that had recently led to all this turmoil.  They were surely up to no good, and his leap upon them was swift and (seemingly) fierce.  The baton-wielding cop brought his weapon alonsgside the dog's abdomen, which was now full of sweets and saturated fats.  The poor animal's rear end erupted in a horizontal volcano of diarrhea, blasting one grandmother and two of her friends from choir with a veritable confetti gun of crap.  Expressions of shock, dismay, and horror now interspersed amid the laughter and tears, and the stricken ladies sat, stunned, with poop particles in their hair, brown mist on their glasses, and stains seeping into their strands of pearls.  Beside them, the stoned interloper, formerly the bass player for the band Contempt, nodded his head and laughed soundlessly as he said, "Dude, now it's a party."

So there you go.  That is my contribution this Mothers Day.  Cheers to all you moms out there who make every event in their children's lives a special memory.   

Bill and His M-Farmall

For ages, hardy souls with leather hands have worked the earth. Driven by a will to survive and desperate dreams, they entered the fields with the daylight and stayed for a lifetime. The solitude of timeless hours sometimes witnessed a strange bond emerge between the yeoman and his reluctant beast or oily machine. As countless clods turned, respect leafed into affection for an ox with no tail, or a mule named Highlow, or the M-Farmall with a blade on the front. Seared by heat, iced by wind, and worn from work, an enduring union formed. As one entity, soldier of the soil and his witless lieutenant inched toward a distant turnrow and an unknown harvest.

Such a team is William Riddell and his fine red tractor. After service in World War II, Bill bought his M-Farmall on a G.I. loan. The two have pulled together for over fifty years. During that time, land on the Riddell place was cleared for farming, terraces and ponds were built to control watershed, fields were plowed, planted, and harvested, hay was stored and fed, sick and ice-bound cows were lifted and tended, and many strained eyes stared from a muddy ditch on some lonely, School Hill road to see an approaching man/machine rescue unit, protected only by a wet felt hat.

Despite this record, the intangible is the most unique feature of this 'relationship.' Bill's pride and appreciation for his powerful pardner, his intelligence and attention to detail, his romantic vision of place, history, and life, and his humorous command of language, both colorful and formal, inspire an understanding of how strongly he feels about his tractor.

Sure, Bill spent time in the oil field and the peanut mill to support his family. And yes, he skillfully maintained county roads for many years on a yellow grader with cheese, crackers, Coke, and a trailing dog named O.G. It's true that Bill chews tobacco, is a sports fanatic, and has always been a hound man to the bone. (Oma Lee has been known to mention a few other faults.) But, my favorite image of Bill is atop his trusted tractor, pulling a load of hay. He idles down the engine and grins with happiness about the field of square bales that he just hauled singlehandedly. He reaches down a hard, blunt hand and jokes because he is my friend. In his face is a weathered strength of character that will outlast youth and physical prowess. Bill is a man with the grit to face any difficulty that the future may hold. And, if he ever does need any help, just bring him his sturdy M-Farmall, and together, they will get the job done!

by Gene Grimshaw

Snow Globes

It's a rare and wonderful snow day in Texas, and my babies (one of whom is now bigger than me) are tucked with me in our flannel pj's and quilts with tomcats keeping our feet warm.  The stunning stark light that bounces off the ice and breaks in through the windows is disparate among the grey shadows of the house.  We are nappy and snuggly, and we yawn with kitty-cat breath.  This will be among the happiest days of my life.
I remember another snow day when the kids were toddlers that set the bar a level higher in counting those happy moments.  I was a stay at home mom then, and we lived next to a park called Boys Ranch.  So, when the snow fell thick and cold, we bundled up and stomped to the playground instead of staying in.  There were geese on the steaming pond, and the world was washed in shades of grey.  We were alone in the vast blanketed snowscape, and all sounds were hushed and muted beneath the quiet sky.  My children and I were delighted to find that the winds which usually twisted little dirt devils across the open space were capable of doing the same thing with snow.  Powdery flakes danced around us, so marvelously graceful that at first we could only watch in still silence, afraid movement might spook them away, I guess.  But then we began to pretend that we were in a snow globe, and each flurry meant that someone was shaking our little orbed world.  We wobbled, staggered, and fell while loudly overdramatizing these imagined upheavals, feigning difficulty in maintaining balance in what was, probably, the most stable moment I've ever known. 

Feline Contentment

I am quite sure that cats are great lovers of literature, perhaps even prolific creators thereof.  What else could they be thinking about while spending hours in sunlit squares of quilt?  There is very likely a curse, likened to the feminine Curse we blame upon Eve, from which cats suffer.  I imagine that the premier angelic cat noticed - mutely, with only a slightly raised cat brow - that perhaps God's creations were not entirely perfect.  Let's face it, creativity is a challenge.  Even months or years after compiling that quintessential scrapbook or baking the ultimate artisanal bread or manufacturing with thine own hands some gallant creation that is remarkable in the maker's eyes, a source of pride, and of profound and poignant beauty perhaps because of its loveliness in spite of imperfections, the creator is inclined to tweak the effects a bit, just a bit, but oh how necessary the improvements. 
I'm just saying that we can all sympathize with the ... episode... of noticing that perhaps our amazing bit of art ... could be improved upon ever so slightly in this one... these few... just a couple of ways... only these points here, really.  It happens.  No one could fault God in spying these few tiny ... a couple of  perhaps maybe not so much omniperfect aspects of Life.
And yet, such questions are not permitted and cannot be without undermining Supreme authority.  And thus, blame was laid squarely upon the nearest closest proximation of perfection. - Lucicat.  (previously a favorite of God's, but... you know... how it goes.)  Suddenly, one finds oneself cast out, brushed from the sunlit squares on the providential quilt, banished to lands of kibble and litter, subject to stupid lesser beings, and deprived of thumbs and all sources of recording the brilliant thoughts and great literature that leap through the minds of cats with the nimble agility of a gymnast and the grace of a ballerina.  The cruelest blow is that Human - source of bacon bits, chin scratches, tummy rubs, stinky gym shoes, and delightful dutch-oven farts - is given dominion thereof.  *ack ...cough...crgghh...hairball*
Cats bear witness to the fact that God in all great glory, righteousness, mercy, and all-powerful magnitude is actually a lleeettllle bit vindictive, too.

False Advertising

*phone rings*

Me, pretending not to have Caller ID:  Hello?
Mama:  Hello?
Me:  Hello?
Mama:  I don't think I dialed right.  Can you hear me?
Me:  Yes, I can hear you.  I'm just waiting for you to say something else for me to respond to.
Mama:  What?
Me:  Dammit.
Mama:  Hello?
Me:  Just start talking, Mama.
Mama:  Oh, hi!  :-)  I was just calling to see how you were doing because it's been several weeks since I talked to you, and I was worried about you.
Me:  It's only been three days.
Mama:  Is today not Thursday?
Me:  No...wait, which one?
Mama:  Huh?
Me:  You said it's been several weeks - which Thursday are you asking if it is?
Mama:  Well, I don't know.  I guess it could be any of them.
Me:  It's not Thursday, and it's only been three days.  Is your leg better?
Mama:   Oh yeah, yeah, it's just fine.  I just - no, that wasn't anything - (sounds of vicious dog growls in background) Yeah, yeah, that's no problem at all.  Quitit.  Stopthat.  Shhh.
Me:  Who are you talking to?  Have you taken in more strays?
Mama:  Oh no no no no noooo...that was just, uh, no my leg is just fine.  I don't know.  Why?  What?  Can you hear me?
Me:  Yes, I can hear you.  (big sigh - choose to abandon search for direct answer)  Mom, I messed up.
Mama:  What?  Ludicrous!  That's crazy.  How is that even possible?
Me:  I know, I know, I'm as dismayed as anyone.  I advertised myself as being funny when most of the stuff I've written lately has not been funny at all.  They've been the anti-funny.  You have to go way back for the funny stuff.  And read the tags.  If it is not tagged as funny, it certainly is not; and even if it is tagged as funny, it may be only marginally so.  Not funny at all, really.  (disgusted sigh)  Now I'm ruined.  It's all ruined, and I'm going straight to hell.  And I'm dragging everyone I ever knew with me.  Especially you, Mama, in fact you will be first.  It's so bad that not only am I going to hell and dragging you with me, but I'm pushing you in front of me as a human shield.  I'm ducking behind you while dragging you to hell with me.
Mama:  Well, you should.  No one deserves to go to hell more than I do.  I should go first.  I should go so that you don't have to.
Me:  No, no, this is all on me.  You are utterly without blame on this one, blameless and innocent and thrown upon the sacrificial stone.
Mama/Me, chiming in concordant tones of contrition:  Mea culpa!  (beating chests)  My fault, my fault, my own most grievous fault!  (crying and lamenting...sighing and catching breath)
Me:  Okay, that's not fun anymore.
Mama:  But it's always fun!
Me:  I know, but I'm impatient today.  Let's skip ahead.
Mama:  Okay.  Are we moving directly to the commiseration, or do you need to be berated first?
Me:  Let's mix it up.  I like it when you mix it up.
Mama:  I do, too.  Do we have a safe word?
Me:  Hhmmm...I think it should be BLOG.
Mama:  I don't know what that is.
Me:  It's okay, you don't have to know the meaning of the safe word to use it as such.
Mama:  Blob!
Me:  No, Blog.  And I have to throw a flag for premature use of safe word.  (frowns and shakes head disappointedly.)  I know you're getting older, but there are pills for that.
Mama:  Do I get to throw a flag for you using "disappointedly" as a word?
Me:  It's a word.  It's an adverb.  It has -ly on the end. 
Mama:  No, it isn't.  You can't just put -ly on the end of any word and make it a word.
Me:  Yes, I can, and it is now.  It's in the new dictionary. 
Mama:  I guess I don't have the new dictionary.  I just have the old correct one.
Me:  Yours smells like cat pee.
Mama:  It's still correct.
Me:  It stinks of correction.  The odor of your righteousness confounds the nostrils.
Mama:  Did we change the game?
Me:  I guess so.  I'm bored.  And I'm not funny.
Mama:  Well, I'm not either.  But you are funny looking?  (helpful tone of voice)
Me:  Well-played, Mama, well-played in a real half-ass sort of way.
Mama:  I'm here for you.  (background noises of cats & dogs, fighting, growling, hissing, disemboweling each other)
Me:  I know you are, Mama.  I'll call you Thursday.

The Cheshire Mama, part two

There was one day when I was at school that my mother took my toddler brother for a walk down the sandy dirt road away from our house.  The sky's exorbitant blue and drifting puffs of cloud gave no compas indications, and the fields of sandy peanut rows and acres of coastal pasture stretched on in every direction.  Tiny black helicopters began to sink from the sun and float just outside of my mother's grasp.  A static noise came from them, trying to communicate garbled signals from elsewhere.  Bits of speech, exclamations, pleading voices appealing for help, stern reprimands, and whispered intimations of dire circumstances spoke to her, whirled around her, here, there, that side, this.  A disorienting jumble of plans gone wrong, betrayed friendships, self-serving power figures, and valiant pawns within the game treatised her, called to her, begged for her help, chided her, slapped, and ultimately led her astray.  She was miles away from home.  The sun was now high, bearing down, no longer an ambivalent force behind sheep-like puffs of white.  Gnats buzzed, and bullnettle whipped her ankles.  There were no cows.  There were supposed to be herds of cows grazing peacefully on either side of the road, but no other living being was within sight.  Quiet descended, without even the whir and whip of the helicopter blades, and the full horror set in that she was not only lost in native lands, not only absent of familiar sights, not just disoriented by hallucinations, but she had lost her child.  She ran in the direction she thought was towards home.  She ran a tangent of it when it did not seem right.   She ran without plan or reason on any compelling path.  She was fly fishing, casting herself, floating briefly, pullling in and casting in another direction, trying to find a bite, to land something that would reel in, that would be real. 
*pop*poppop*pop*pop*
Her gait slowed and eyes turned toward a lane in the woods.  Bullets?  Firecrackers?  Something fired repeatedly, quietly, steadily.  Her mind wanted to drift to holocaustal horrors.  The tiny black helicopters whirred nearby in her mind.  An enormous yellow school bus, Bus #12 driven by Vietnam veteran Ray McLearen, emerged from the line of trees at the riverbed, bringing me home from school just as her three year old stepped out of the wooded trail with his popcorn-popper push toy.
She dropped to her knees, then sat in the sand.  With her in the open, her children made their way towards her, each thinking they had been adrift in the world and grateful to find their touchstone waiting for them.