I looked over at my mom and smiled as the show began. El Bat Segundo led the other mimes on stage like a line of promenading poodles. In certain circles this guy was famous the world over, and his strut showed it. In the excitement of the moment there was an inaudible roar of the greasepaint, the smell of the crowd intensifying in expectation. Not my first choice of shows, but following orders comes naturally when your mother wears combat boots. It didn't matter that she now wore bunions instead and was built like a wisp. You do not snark at the will of the wisp. It just isn't done.
Admittedly, she's not all grit and steel. Exhibit A to that effect was currently bounding around onstage. Mom is quirky. She had nicknames for us kids while we were growing up like "Galleycat", "K.P. Doodle", "Trench Monsters" and "Recruit A-Z" (depending on how pissed off she was at that moment). For every moment she'd get fed up and yell "Drop and give me twenty!", there'd be days she'd come home and say, "Drop and give me ten ... books!" On those occasions, my brother and I would rush to fill her lap, and no matter what the evening plans had been, she'd read every last one.
It was the real reason we loved her more than anything on this earth, and followed her every order. It was the real reason I let her drag me out of my muddled apartment, and am sitting here on vacation with her now. Today it was greasepaint and drums. Tomorrow it would be a boat tour to see the diamondback terrapins. On the drive home we have a date to go see the Painting Pig of Pittsburgh. Everyone has their own way of meeting with life. This was hers, and she was bound and determined to take me with her.
Miss Snark is afraid to ask, but posts her courage to the sticky place and asks: what the HECK is a Painting Pig?
Scores to come.