Sometimes I feel Like a Motherless Child...but only sometimes
Sometimes I feel Like a Motherless Child...but only sometimes
As I walk the plank for the last time, I will be wearing my finest cowboy outfit, the kind I wore when I was 6. Brown, with fringe, and a gold star. I’ll have my twin six-shooters, loaded with those red caps with the little black dot in the middle. “Bang!” My blazing six-gun will roar, scaring the hell out the devil, sending old Legba running like a squirrel suffering from bipolar disorder.
It will be damn good to be six again. Six was a good year. No responsibilities. And my Mom will be alive.
No one ever loved me the same as my mom. This is the tragedy of becoming a man.
I pity men who didn’t have a good mom. Tuff luck, for sure. We expect—or come to find—that dads are far less forgiving. Dads don’t know how to console hurt feelings, except to say “Toughen up kid! When I was your age I had to walk to school in avalanche conditions. I’d start walking in early September, and maybe, if I was lucky, I’d get there by November. I had to do this every day, even Saturdays and Sundays. So, Stop whining and act like a man. I hope that helps.”
At which point, you either toughened up, or you became a momma’s boy.
In reality, all men are momma’s boys. Unless their moms were the bad kind, in which case these rules don’t apply, and you’re probably a criminal or serial killer now.
That’s the power of a bad mom.
Anyway. This is what I expect after I step off into eternity. I'll wake up to the sound of the TV, Roy Rogers chasing the bad guys on a little black and white screen, maybe the Wolfman, and my mom, smiling, looks at me like I’m some long lost treasure. That will be heaven.
For me.
Mark Magula
As I walk the plank for the last time, I will be wearing my finest cowboy outfit, the kind I wore when I was 6. Brown, with fringe, and a gold star. I’ll have my twin six-shooters, loaded with those red caps with the little black dot in the middle. “Bang!” My blazing six-gun will roar, scaring the hell out the devil, sending old Legba running like a squirrel suffering from bipolar disorder.
It will be damn good to be six again. Six was a good year. No responsibilities. And my Mom will be alive.
No one ever loved me the same as my mom. This is the tragedy of becoming a man.
I pity men who didn’t have a good mom. Tuff luck, for sure. We expect—or come to find—that dads are far less forgiving. Dads don’t know how to console hurt feelings, except to say “Toughen up kid! When I was your age I had to walk to school in avalanche conditions. I’d start walking in early September, and maybe, if I was lucky, I’d get there by November. I had to do this every day, even Saturdays and Sundays. So, Stop whining and act like a man. I hope that helps.”
At which point, you either toughened up, or you became a momma’s boy.
In reality, all men are momma’s boys. Unless their moms were the bad kind, in which case these rules don’t apply, and you’re probably a criminal or serial killer now.
That’s the power of a bad mom.
Anyway. This is what I expect after I step off into eternity. I'll wake up to the sound of the TV, Roy Rogers chasing the bad guys on a little black and white screen, maybe the Wolfman, and my mom, smiling, looks at me like I’m some long lost treasure. That will be heaven.
For me.
Mark Magula