momma, mommy, mother, della....

I answer to all of the above, except for when I am preoccupied and don't answer, which is not well tolerated by one particular teenage daughter who uses the occasion to flounce off with a loud, "fine, don't listen to me."

And yes, sometimes some of them call me by my first name. They don't mean any disrespect, it's just that sometimes they say MOM, and I don't hear them, and sometimes when we are working at a concert or something, they don't want to yell, "Mom!".

I thought of my own mother this morning as I poured the very last of the Whisk detergent into the washing machine...the container had been lying on it's side, you know, so the rest is easy to pour out. I haven't gotten ALL of the rest out yet, I may put a little bit of water in it and shake it up. My kids think I'm crazy when I do that. I thought it was normal.

My own mother used to make spaghetti like this: boil the pot of pasta, drain the water out by using a pan lid to hold the pasta in, tipping the pot over the sink, letting the hot water pour out...then she'd open a jar of sauce...pour it right in with the pasta, then fill the jar with water, put the lid back on and shake well, then pour that in too. She used to brown up the ground beef in the iron frying pan (which we always called "hamburger", or even "hamburge") with onions, and pour that in too. Mix well, and voila, a big pot of spaghetti. I always loved it, especially the next day heated up. In a pan of course, microwave ovens weren't in kitchens yet way back then.

Then one day I went to my friend's house for dinner. Spaghetti. A nice big bowl of pasta was passed around, then the bowl with sauce, and gasp, meatballs instead of bits of hamburger! The sauce was thick and tasty! I was in love.

So needless to say, I didn't inherit my mother's thrifty spaghetti recipe, but it does make my heart ache to remember her standing at the stove. Her own mother died when she was 14 years old, so she never really had anyone teach her to cook. My father didn't mind, he grew up extremely poor, one of 12 kids. His mother taught him, "Soap and water is cheap, there is no excuse for being dirty." She kept a spotless house, and even though they were dirt poor, she brought them up clean and tidy. But my dad appreciated the simple food my mother made, he often said to her, "Plain but nourishing, Maudie, plain but nourishing." But he said it in a happy way, because he really did like it.

Anyway. Last week marks the ten year anniversary of my mother's death. Whoever said it gets easier, had no idea. Time stretches on, and the longer she's been gone, the more I miss her.

But this isn't supposed to be a sad post.

Today is a happy day! Our son Benjamin, his wife Ashley and our little granddaugher Anya are coming over! They are visiting from Washington state! They are coming to spend the night. Ashley lived here with us when Ben was deployed to Afghanistan, and they are going to stay in the same room she had then. Paul is in charge of putting the air mattress in there, as there is only one single bed. I am in charge of everything else. ha. I have already done so much this morning, but have to leave soon to bring Sonja to the orthopedic doctor, I hope we finally get a diagnosis of this knee injury, and I hope it's a simple easy fix. Or perhaps just a, "Oh, you're fine! Take off that brace, put away those crutches, you're fine!"

A person who is leaving soon and has to also get groceries for a whole week of staying in the camper (we are leaving tomorrow for a week for church summer conference, (Ben and Ashley and Anya are going too!)should not just be sitting with her feet up drinking coffee... I have to go shopping, then come home and see my dear ones from across the country...we are having burgers on the grill. Then tomorrow we are packing up and leaving.

Oops, we really have to get going....