I had a blog already done for today with lots of pictures and sad words. I looked at it and after all the hours of work I put into it I deleted it. Linda had literally once again talked herself into believing that her mother’s absence was the cause for her past unhappy life.
Of course it is not easy living without a mother, but to blame a poor woman who died way too early was wrong. So there will be no Hitchcock childhood tales of woe from me today, as this is exactly the message I want to spread so enjoy!
The first story is a new one that happened yesterday and the latter is from last year.
The "Stephen Hawking' Man
Yesterday I was at the post office when a young man in a motorized wheelchair rolled up behind me in line. He was severely handicapped and his caretaker said he had a motor neurone disease much like Stephen Hawking. I insisted he go ahead of me and clutched in his deformed hands was a type of Blackberry phone and in the other he held a postcard and a folded dollar bill.
He held the Blackberry high and all I heard was a muffled sound so I asked him to replay the message. The automated voice simply said,
“I would like to mail this postcard.”
So I took the postcard and the dollar bill and handed it to Yolanda the clerk. She processed it and handed me back the change which I then gave to the young man. He screamed with delight and words of excitement. The words were slurred but I quickly understood his repeated words:
“I did it! I did it!”
I smiled, tears quickly filled my eyes and I replied,
“You sure did and I am so proud of you!”
We knocked fists together and the beaming young man told me what his name was and then attempted to ask me what my name was. I swear his eyes said it all and then he backed his wheelchair up and connected with his caretaker where she also praised him.
When he left, Yolanda held up the postcard and told me it was a Mother's Day postcard.
Nothing mattered for the rest of the day as I had seen the best already.
A Chicken McNugget Story
Generally McDonald's is not the most inspirational place to gather stories. Every Wednesday all I see in there is a lot of misery and supposedly non existent trans fat. Being a chronic voyeur I have watched people all my life and to not be interested in your fellow man is a felony to me.
Good, evil, old or young, everyone has a story that needs to be told. As I take a bite of “my shaved not cut” carrot I realize my notebook is not with me. So to make this an honest to goodness fast food tale, I write everything down on my McDonald's napkin.
A homeless couple stands near me chatting with a seated woman eating some Chicken McNuggets. The disheveled man remains nameless but I soon find out that his partner's name is Polly. Polly stands close to him and pulls her pink crochet hat down over her head. Her long black hair is clean and she strokes it as she talks.
The man seems uncomfortable and shuffles his well worn construction boots and adjusts his stained white hoodie that is covered with a tweed suit jacket. He looks like he has lived a thousand years on the street, yet the words he utters are nothing short of eloquent.
Speaking with a vocabulary that anyone would be envious of, he tells the seated woman that Mother's Day is the anniversary of the death of Polly's daughter Iris. One can only imagine the enormous grief she has carried that has led her to make a life for herself on the streets. Tears now flow from Polly's eyes, but she talks calmly and hugs the man that loves her.
He looks at her and says,
"If I had money I would buy you flowers for Mother's Day"
She hugs him harder and I just want to jump up and buy these two some chocolate chip cookies as I am a true believer that sugar fixes everything. A man sitting in front of me motions for the homeless man to come talk to him. Polly is still engrossed in telling the tale of her deceased daughter and does not seem to notice he has left her side.
The homeless man is given some money by the very kind man and he runs out the door with a huge smile on his face. Two minutes later he comes back and hands Polly a small bouquet of Irises he bought from a street vendor. She hugs him and starts to cry once again. Tears run down my face and I look at them as if I am gazing at their life through a peephole. It was a Mother's Day gift of generosity from a stranger and once again I have faith in mankind.
After all what does a mother really want? I can safely say that most mothers do not need a fancy meal or a day at the spa. They want generous comforting love from their children and nothing more.
Just one order of love to go and no extra McNugget sauce is needed.
Happy Mother's Day!
Linda Seccaspina for Zoomers Canada
Author of "Menopausal Woman From the Corn"