The Daddy, mid-1970s. My favorite photo of him. Twenty-nine years ago on this day, the Daddy died from a heart attack. He was 76 years old. Maybe he didn't pick how or where he died, but I think he was happy it wasn't at home where the Mama would've come home to find him after a long, tiring day at work. He was always protective of her. That day the Daddy decided to go to lunch at the senior center with his good friend Danny, one of the godfathers of mine. The Daddy hadn't been there for quite a long while. He hadn't been feeling well, but those last three days, I was told, he'd been going strong, visiting, babysitting, doing so many of the things he liked to do. So, there he was sitting at the lunch table. He was bending down for a spoon on the floor, I was told. He was there longer than he should have been.  "Hey, 'Pare (short for compadre), what you doing down there?" called a friend. Then, a scramble to get help for the Daddy. That was it. Whil

A few weeks ago, the Mama and I cut back her banana trees and she stripped off the dried leaves. A banana blossom had actually made it through the frosty days. It was quite yummy. The Mama decided to leave quite a lot of the trunks in tact. Usually, she likes to hack them almost to the ground. It shall be interesting to see how tall her tiny groves grows. Here's a close-up of how happy part of it looked last year.

Brrrrrrrrrrrr. Temperatures have been dipping into the 30s and 40s the past month. Ha! So what! says this blooming rose in the Mama's garden. Head over to Alphabe-Thursday , hosted by Jenny Matlock, to read other N posts.

Su- sieee! is how the mama calls for me. When she urgently wants me, she puts a long emphasis on the second syllable. If I don't answer in two or three beats, she calls again. Su-s ieeeeeeeeeeee! So, dear readers, in case you were wondering, that is why I italicize the second syllable of my name. The mama had not planned to name me Susie. She had another name in mind for me.  But, the mama was foiled by her accent and the nurse who was assigned to get my name from the mama. "What is your baby's name?" asked the nurse. "Tessie," said the mama. "Susie?" the nurse asked. "No," the mama replied. "Tessie." "Susie?" "Tessie." "Susie?" "Tessie." "Susie?" The mama gave up. "Yes, Susie." That's the story the mama tells me. After all these years, I'm still thankful the nurse couldn't understand her. Today's Christmas song is "Thank God It's Christmas,&qu

Asking for help can be so difficult for some people. The mama, for instance. The nearly-90-year-old woman  is stubborn about asking me to help her with the harder chores in the garden. But, she gladly takes the help, if I happen to give it without asking, "Do you need help?" It's taken me awhile to recognize how silly that question is.  It's similar to asking a visitor if she would like something to drink. According to the Mama, you don't ask, you just serve the drink. So, I've learned to keep my eyes and ears open to what's going on when she's outside. For instance, when I hear the sound of metal scraping against cement, I head outside to see what the Mama is doing. And, usually she has set up the ladder against one of her many trees to pick some fruits or prune tree branches. "Here, let me do it," I say, as I shove my feet into my shoes. "I can do it," she says, as she's about to climb the ladder. We spar back and forth a coup

Here's what this week looked like for a professional writer who hasn't been doing much writing lately. Be forewarned: You may fall asleep. That's okay. I may already have. Sunday The husband and I bought a Dyson vacuum cleaner. Although several friends had recommended it, I did not put it on our list of choices because of the cost.  At the store, we got curious and looked at it. Then all of a sudden Jesus appeared. "Can I help you?" he asked politely. (Really, the sales guy's name was Jesus. Not Hay-soos, but Gee-sus.) Very long story short, with Jesus' confidence about the machine and the store's return policy, we decided to invest in the machine. Monday I vacuumed part of the house. Result: Three containers full of dust. The mama made a mistake on her absentee ballot, so I took her down to the courthouse for a replacement. As we headed up the stairs, she said, "I feel so ashamed for making a mistake." In all her 50 years of voting, this was

The mama constantly works. She sows and maintains her gardens. She breaks to eat lunch and to read the daily news. Today she also napped.  Unusual. We both wondered. The Sunday 160 is hosted by the Monkey Man. A 160 is 160 characters, including spaces. To learn about it and to read other bloggers' Sunday 160, head over to this page .

For this Wordless Wednesday and Outdoor Wednesday , I give you a look at the Mama's garden. This is how the mama's garden looked in April of this year. The mama's garden as of last week. Can you see her at work? The mama gave her first gourd of the season  to her friend. The mama chops the banana plants back every winter. By summer they are in full bloom again. The Mama's sunflowers had to be over 12 feet tall, three times taller than her. Today, we celebrate the mama's first day of starting another trip around the sun. Joy!

"Que sera, sera. . ." The husband looked up from the Sunday comics. "Whatever will be, will be. . ." He looked down the hallway. The mama had already wandered out of sight. "That's the first time I heard her sing," said the husband. "She's getting ready to sing tonight at the novena," I said, just as surprised as him. "I don't think they'll be singing that song," he said. "No," I said, "But they should." Unfortunately, the mama didn't have the chance to sing. Her ride never came to take her to the second night of the novena of mourning for her friend. That's a Catholic Church ritual of praying that soothes the souls of the departed's loved ones. My definition. Fortunately, the mama didn't seem to mind that she had been forgotten. She was probably relieved. She did not have to deal with the question that people seem compelled to ask her. How old are you? It's not a question anyone

Our child is growing. Til today, she felt shy to go to social events. Now look. Two days. Two parties by herself. Before we know it, our 80ish mama will be dating. --- This is a 160 Character Challenge, hosted by the Monkey Man . Give it a try. What can you write in 160 characters or less? You must count spaces, too.

The Octogenarian Pruning Mama I've joined the Wordless Wednesday linky party today. Head on over and check out photos of other bloggers.

Yesterday the mama asked me to explain something she was reading in an AARP flyer. It was a short article about what a woman can do about vaginal dryness so that intercourse isn't so painful. Uh. The mama is a voracious reader. She likes to learn. Both things I didn't know until the husband and I became her roommates several years ago. English is not her primary language, and I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, her English reading comprehension is about a 4, more or less. She doesn't let complicated or unfamiliar words get her down. If she's interested in a story, she plows through it. If she's really interested in what words mean precisely, she asks me. So, she asked me.  Hoo boy. The mama hadn't even taught me about sex when I a kid. The only instruction I received that came closest to the topic was the afternoon of getting ready for my senior class prom.  She showed me a gigantic safety pin, then put it in my purse, saying something like "In case you need

If you want to know what a woman will be like, look at her mother. That's what I overheard a friend say to the husband long ago.  He had said it with a goofy smile and a mix of pride, exasperation, and complacency. I had met his mother-in-law. If I believed in such a saying, I would still be running to get far away. If that saying is true, then one day I would be picking up leaves off the ground, as I gripe about the neighbors and their messy trees and growl at the the wind for carrying the leaves into my yard. I would also be sweeping the ground everyday, while the dust gathers even deeper inside the house. On the plus side, if I ended up looking like the mama, I would finally be svelte, which would go better with my petiteness. Sometimes I wonder if the husband looks at the mama and shudders because he thinks I may end up with some of her more crazy habits. Like mine aren't so crazy.

The mama is a professional reuser and repurposer, and she doesn't even know it.  See the photo of different types of containers. I picked all those things up from behind her seat at the kitchen table the other day so I could mop the floor. That box is not empty. It's loaded with empty peanut butter jars. I'm sure I could find at least a dozen boxes full of empty jars stashed in the garage and the tool shed. Maybe one of these days, I'll take some of the boxes down to the recycling center. For as long as I can remember, the mama has saved jars, worn out clothing, boxes, paper bags, bread ties, containers and trays that food come on, tree branches, wood, linoleum tiles, and so on and so forth. She turns them all into functional things such as dust rags, garbage bags, seed containers, and plant saucers. The mama has a lot of soft kitchen towels that she made out of rice bags when rice was sold in white cotton sacks. As for tree branches, she keeps the sturdy tall ones that

The Mama's Vegetable Garden in 2009 The weather was so glorious last week that the Mama started planting her vegetable garden. She was very happy to be playing in the dirt again, after being cooped up in the house during the rainy and cold days. To read more about the gardening Mama, click here . Happy Mother's Day to you and your Mamas! This is how the Mama's garden looks today. Soon bean and squash vines will be climbing up these wires again. The Mama threw these bean seeds in the ground about two weeks ago. The first artichoke of the season! Those are all volunteer apricot tree saplings. No idea how that happened. The Mama at Work

I learned recently that the Pulitzer people give out an annual prize for criticism. The mama would win one if she was a journalist, or if the prize was for the most, best, and consistent criticizer around.  That doesn't sound good, does it? On a positive note, she is less critical than she was in our younger days. That could be because I am just as less critical about her. Ah, the joys of this daughter-and-mother relationship. I digress, as bloggers are sometimes meant to do. According to the Pulitzer Prizes Web site, the winners in the criticism category are awarded for their " distinguished criticism." In other words, they have written in print or online acclaimed, celebrated, esteemed, respected, important, and influential words of assessment, appraisal, judgement, disapproval, condemnation, and/or censure. Imagine. Some winning critics have offered their opinions about movies, books, music, art, architecture, or media. Others have commented about social, cultural, ec

April showers bring May flowers. I hope so. On Saturday, I sprinkled a large bag and a half of random seeds (over 8,000 seeds) amid the mama's organized flower beds. She said I could, even after I said some of the flowers may be vines. Messy yards drive her nuts. She curses the leaves of other trees in the neighborhood that end up in her backyard, as she sweeps, picks, and deposits them into the green recycling bin almost every day.  In the fall, the mama clucks at front yards full of dead leaves. "If that was my yard," she would say, "I would get rid of that tree." And, if a neighbor happens to annoy her at the moment, she mumbles about the weeds in his or her yard, but only I would be able hear or understand what she is saying. Why then did the mama allow me to shake seeds throughout her orderly garden? There was a starry far-away look in her eyes at the mention of four-o'clock flowers. I think, though, it's mostly because she has a strong sense of cu

"Mama, come quick," I called as the mama came through the door. As fast as the mama could, she climbed down the steps into the garage, took off her indoor slippers, and slipped into her outdoor shoes. She steadily made her way across the garage to the side door and then out behind me. I bounded ahead to the black compost tumbler by the fence and waited patiently for her to walk the short distance. As she reached me, I opened the compost maker door. "Look at this!" The mama peeked into the compost maker. I like to think I saw a tiny bit of surprise register on her stoical face. Ever the gardener, she said, "We'll plant them when they're stronger." Over 20 squash buds had sprouted in the dark, rich compost. Cool, huh? For the next few days, I'll be trotting outside first thing in the morning to open the compost maker door. That is, if the mama doesn't beat me to it.

If you ask the mama how old she is, she will usually say, "I'm 100 years old." And, depending on who you are, she might give you a smile or a look that tells you she thinks you're a moron. So, how old is the mama? She has told me not to tell. But I can say that the mama is 30-some years older than me, and I'm already considered a senior by AARP. Age does not slow the mama down. The weather does. First it was rain, now it's the chilly wind that keeps her from spending all day playing outside in her garden patches. I'm grateful for that. The cold weather, that is. It buys the husband and me time to figure out how to prep a smaller vegetable garden space without it being too obvious. Her vegetable garden, you see, is practically the whole back yard. When the husband and I first moved in with the mama, we made a point of staying out of her garden. It is her domain, her zen, her centering place. With each year, though, I've been casually going out there a b

I now sweep the kitchen floor after dinner while the husband washes the dishes. I used to do it in the morning. That is when I remembered. Most mornings, I didn't. Until recently I rarely swept the kitchen floor in the evening because I was taught to not do that unless something bad happened such as a glass broke on the floor.  So, what changed? I read an article about 10 good cleaning habits to have, of which one was sweeping the kitchen floor after dinner. Made sense. No stepping on crumbs or unpopped popcorn first thing in the morning. The other evening the mama caught me sweeping the kitchen floor. Just as I thought she would, she said, "It's bad luck to sweep at night." "Why?" I asked. She didn't respond. She just left the kitchen. I doubt she has an answer for that or any of her  superstitions.  I think grownups taught her superstitions when she was a kid as a way of getting her to obey. I also think that she made up her own to control my actions m