Happy Birthday, Mom!

M is for the Million things she gave me,
O is only that she’s growing Old,
T is for the Things she said to save me,
H is for her Heart of purest gold,
E is for her Eyes with love’s light shining,
R’s for Right and right she’ll always be,
Put them all together, they spell MOTHER,
The word that means the world to me!

I would like to wish my mom a very happy 65th birthday! Now you can collect Medicare, wear Depends, take Geritol, and drive like an old lady. So in recognition of my mother, here’s a great story I tell in her honor.

We lived in the country next to a large hay field. This field was freshly cut and the alfalfa was in windrows drying the humid Minnesota air. My brother, Joe, decided to head out across the back field for a trip into the woods. He bounded over each row and was oblivious to the impending adventure that was about to overtake him. But we saw it from the window. Because of our vantage point, my mother and I could see that Joe was headed directly toward a skunk. Yes, a skunk.

My mother sensed trouble so she yelled at Joe to stop but he kept bounding in a frolicking manner. As he jumped the last windrow, Joe saw it too. And then the skunk saw Joe. And then Joe ran away from the skunk. And then the skunk ran after Joe. Run Joe, run. Run after Joe skunk, run fast. You see, what you don’t know about skunks, or any small woodland animal for that matter, is that if they are running after you, they are probably rabid.

And we Petersons knew all about rabid skunks. When he was little, my poor cousin Steve came into my grandparent’s house crying, his hand bleeding. When asked what had happened, he said, “The kitty bit me.” Upon further investigation it was discovered that the kitty had a large white stripe running down his back and it smelled really bad. Steve had pet a skunk. And any skunk that allows you to get that close is either rabid, or hiding under tall grass (see my story, Ninja Powers). Steve had to undergo a very painful treatment of daily rabies shots. We kids never forgot that. In fact, it terrified us.

Mom ran downstairs and grabbed a rifle. It was a .22 caliber. She ran outside and then screamed, “Run Joe, Run.” Poor Joe didn’t know who to run from. Was he running from the skunk or from his mother who was now taking a bead on the skunk from 50 yards? I don’t think Joe had ever seen my mom shoot anything. And, come to think of it, neither had I. I’m not sure what things looked like from Joe’s angle but I’m certain he was scared. Now I’m shouting, “Run Joe!”

Mom took careful aim at the small, furry moving target. She aimed ahead of the creature anticipating where the bullet and the skunk would eventually meet. She took a breath, squeezed the trigger, and dropped the skunk dead in its tracks. One bullet, one shot. For those of you who are ignorant about guns, the bullet from a 22 is about the same diameter as a pencil, only a bit smaller. It would have been impressive enough if she had used a shotgun. But she didn’t want stray shot hitting Joe, ruining his day. Imagine being shot by your mother, falling on the ground in agony writhing in pain and then being devoured by a rabid skunk. You know what I’m talking about.

So, happy birthday Mom! You are my hero in so many ways. You’ve been through a lot of tough stuff. You’ve protected us with guns, Johnson’s baby aspirin, and most importantly, your prayers. You’ve loved us in spite of our adventures and we know you would even give your life for us. My children adore you and speak of you often. You’re my hero, Mom. I’d wish you a hundred more birthdays but there’s no way I’m getting into a car driven by a 165 year-old lady. You’ll have to sit in the back seat and let your 144 year-old son do the driving. I love you, Mom.