Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

Why, yes, that is a shotgun in her hands. What’s your point?

Just obey her, and everything will be all right.

That’s my Mom. Everything will be all right. She’ll take care of you.

Um, just how did you all think I learned to shoot snakes, anyway?

Heck, all of us kids were reloading shells before we were ten, and one of the things we most hated to hear Dad say was “Get in the car, kids, we’re going out to the gun club to pick up wads.”

The gun club. That will have to be a separate post.

If I have that recurring dream tonight where I’m sitting underground in the traphouse in ankle-deep water, loading trap on that electronic monster, I’ll be really upset. Loading was better than pulling, but as I said, the whole experience will have to be a separate post. Some other time.

Actually, being forced to play with all those extremely perverted, bizarre, freaky, scary, and stupid weird children there was the worst part.

Tomorrow, all of Mom’s daughters will be at her house, bearing food and gifts. My sisters will bring hanging flower baskets for Mom, whereas I always give her something. . . . else. This year I’m giving her “Along Came Polly” on DVD. I know she’ll especially love the bathroom scene.

Private joke. (sorry, Dad.)

Turn off your TV, Mom; we’re all coming over.