This is something I wanted to talk about yesterday. I tried twice, but my computer balked. Thank goodness I have a connection. Thanks, Rob.
April 13th was my brother Mark's 80th birthday. Can you imagine that? One of my memories was a day of shopping; my mother and I shopped and ate lunch downtown every Friday before I started school. We were at the tie counter and she was trying to decide on a new tie for his birthday. (Everyone will agree that gift-giving has reached heights unimaginable to people who lived through the Great Depression.) She didn't mention his age to the clerk and I thought that was important, so I stood on tiptoes (this is my mother's recounting) and told the clerk, "And the boy is twelve years old." For some reason, she thought that was funny and she told it again and again. So anyway, the boy was twelve years old on that day of memory. Happy Birthday, Mark.
I always love your stories. Happy Birthday Uncle Mark
I think I remember you telling me that story, Mom. Yes, Happy Birthday, Uncle Mark. We have no entries here for a week or so and then we get a whole bunch in rapid succession. Love it.
I forgot to mention that the twelve-year old boy grew up to be the man who entertained his elderly mother with slightly off-color jokes. He was faithful in calling her to see how she was doing, and he always had a new one, probably gleaned from co-workers. He got such a kick out of that, and so did she, although she always pretended to be shocked.