A Mother's Day to Remember

A Monologue

T. J. Robertson

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I have, as the dictator, Sadaam Hussein--may he rest in discomfort--would say, the mother of all mothers and I love her very much. Not only is she kind and nurturing but also clever and resourceful. Growing up, I came to believe she could do anything she set her mind to. Well, let me rephrase that and say almost anything

If, as the saying goes, the way to a man's heart is through the kitchen, my mother would be doomed to spinsterhood; for, she's a terrible cook. To be honest with you, because my father died young and under mysterious circumstances, I've often wondered if it was her cooking that did him in.

Oh, don’t get me wrong, she knows the basics. What I mean to say is that she can boil water, break an egg, and put a slice of bread into a toaster. It’s when you get beyond the basics that things become dicey, if not outright dangerous. For that reason during holidays--Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter--without fail my sisters, brothers, and I make a point of taking turns hosting the family gathering and cooking the turkey, which is our standard holiday fare

One Mother's Day, however, to our consternation, she insisted on cooking the turkey. To this day I blame it on Martha Stewart whom my mother worships. In any event nothing I or any of my siblings said could make her change her mind. I challenge you to tell me how, in good conscience, on Mother's Day of all days, a son or daughter can refuse to honor his or her mother's request.

So it happened on a raw, blustery day in May we were all huddled around the table in the dining room of her condominium, crossing our fingers and hoping for the best. When the oven timer went off, everybody winced and turned uneasily on their seats.

Ever the dutiful eldest son, I got up and went into the kitchen to help her take the turkey out of the oven. No sooner did I open the door than out it flew. Believe me, that turkey was one angry bird--so angry that it kept dive-bombing at me and my mother. Despite the turmoil around me I managed to keep my cool, run to the closet, and seize a broom. With my hands firmly on the handle I assumed the stance of a baseball batter and waited for the right moment to hit the bird. When at last it landed atop the refrigerator in exhaustion, I saw my chance. So I cocked the broom and, with all my might, swung it. Unfortunately I missed the turkey and struck my mother on the side of the head, knocking her unconscious.

Needless to say, there was now constipation--I mean consternation--as well as turmoil all around me. Don’t ask me how I did it but once again I managed to remain cool, calm, and collected--enough so to call 9-1-1 and request an ambulance.

Within minutes it arrived but, because of the holiday, there was only one paramedic on duty. So I immediately found myself helping him to lift my mother into the rear of it. Grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, I climbed in next to her and, with sirens blaring, the ambulance roared off. We had driven about a mile when it came to a screeching halt. Fearing that the slightest delay might put my mother’s life in jeopardy, I jumped out and ran around to the front of it to see what the problem was.

To my dismay I found the driver slouched over the steering wheel, unconscious. Obviously he was the victim of a heart attack. With a Herculean effort I managed to drag him out and put him in back alongside my mother. Then I leaped behind the steering wheel and quickly drove the two of them to the hospital.

I offer this incident as proof positive of the saying that every cloud has a silver lining; for my mother, who suffered only a slight concussion, and the ambulance driver, Al, who recovered from a mild heart attack, fell in love and got married. Oh, incidentally, Al now works as a chef and his last name’s Cook. Need I say more.

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