My Birthday

One of the few domestic chores I like is hanging out the laundry. I was engaged in this pleasant activity Saturday morning when I noticed grass coming up in the new swamp I call my back yard. I saw the dew on the ends of the new blades, and scampered inside for the camera.

It was my birthday. I was going to do whatever I wanted. Then the phone rang.

"Ah, hello, this is assisted living. Your mother is, um, usually pretty feisty, but she's been, ah, somewhat mellow, so we were concerned, and we are having her taken to the emergency room. Will you be able to meet her there? "

So I spent the day, and most of the evening, as referee between Mom and the nurses. The ER doctor said she had pneumonia; she insisted that she did not. " What, more blood!? What for? Another x-ray? When do I get out of this place? Where's my own doctor? "

When the Real Doctor showed up, Mom said, in the same breath, " Thank God you're here!...Why weren't you here sooner?! "

Her doctor discharged her, and a mere two hours later we were on our way. She was happy as a clam, and when she got back to her little assisted living apartment,she stretched out on the bed and was instantly asleep.

The clothes spent the night on the clothesline. I wasn't going out there in the dark, with spiders lurking among the socks.