I woke this Mother’s Day morning intending a funny quarantine tale concerning Malcolm and knives, when consideration paused my hand with Why does your twisted mind find this funny? Serial killer intimations, probably not!?! But funny? Eh… oh yes! Yes it is. 

Yet still I pondered, why do I find his new found knife queries funny?

My line of quietly sarcastic women who’s sense of humor is either difficult to detect or so overt it confuses its audience, is long. My grandmother, Granny-Two-Shoes, began this path. She grew up in rural Ohio during the Depression, but my memory extends only to her life in Columbus. For 25 years, she wore two types of outfits. In the 80s, she dazzled in waist to ankle pale floral skirts and plain tucked-in blouses, while she furiously drove her white T-Brid. During the 90s, she drastically transitioned to bright swishy track suits and never looked back. That was her way.  Always put together in the manner she desired. Her perfect white coif and angelic smile hid her inner desire to thrill her grandkids with laughter, tinged in fear.

Well known to jump out at you from behind cabinets, or goose you when you least expect, she loved the element of surprise.  But it was her stories that stuck with me. Her most influential involved two snakes she swore would slither past her porch, stop, and stare into her soul. Daring her to leave. Daring her to stay.

Granny was terrified of snakes. Her only known disdain.

But the virile and detail of how these city serpents appeared out of no where, lived under her porch, waited for her and her only… maybe, filled my seven year old self with conflicting strife.

I’d shrug her off and start down those gray, chipping stones. Yet just before stepping off to sprint after my brother and cousins, I’d glance back to find her sitting primly next to her concrete goose, kitted out in a yellow raincoat.  Intent. Daring me to leave. Daring me to stay. Mouth tight with amusement. That half smile, always pushed my leap.

My mom took humor to a whole new level. With Granny Two Shoes as her quiet guide, my mom added  flare.  A shy, out of place middle schooler, I spent many hours in my room dancing alone to Evita or  Music Box. One night, after a shower, I spent an hour dancing before reducing myself to bed. Finagled deep in my twin, I pulled my white comforter sprinkled with petite pink tulips to my chin, and touched my lamp off.

Settled. Comfortable. Safe.

A slight, steady movement along my side shocked my eyes open, as a heavy arm crashed atop my body and a deep “GooooOOOTTCHAAAA” erupted from the quiet.

A scream for which I did not know I was capable, choked my senses. Kicking and punching violently at my blanket, I seized to the floor and bounced still screaming. A familiar chortle penetrated my blind terror.

My face and heart flashed in anger, for there was my mom.  Wriggling herself free from the confines between bed and wall. Nose cherry red, damp fuzzy hair pressed against her forehead with sweat, and cheeks drenched in elated tears.

Emerging onto my bed, breaths heaving, she gasped, “God Sam, I never thought you’d stop dancing! I almost gave up!!!!”

To this day, she attempts zip lines, walks logs, scales rocks, and says phrases like I’ll be right back I just want to try… that sends chills up my aging spine.  She refuses to let time slow the determination she has always had within, and finds new avenues to project her humor by chiding my boys with bet cha can’t, well I can do that,  prove it, and Ooo, let’s get your mom with…

Fortunately for me,  I am a delightful combination of both Granny-Two-Shoes and Carolyn, all while adding my own evolution to the line designed to prey upon the gullible.

Some call it lying.  Some fear mongering. Some mean.

I prefer the hard truth smothered in hyperbole ensuring all kids are kept on their toes… so the ballast never truly tips.

Either way, in times like these when humor is at its wits… I find comfort reflecting on how I inherited mine, and the better Mother it continues to make me.