I miss Mom.

She has been dead for some years now, but I feel her loss as much as ever.

The last memory I have of my mother is never the last memory.

I grew up on one of those diversified farms where we worked from can-see to can’t-see. It was a time when air conditioning was found only in the shade of an oak tree. We needed to walk bean rows to remove weeds and volunteer corn that would impact the soybean yield in a negative way. It was part of my parents’ no weed left behind program. It sounds as if it was an easy task, but it was far from it. Weeds have a great will to live. The job required spending too much time in reality. It could be a hot, muggy and buggy job. There was more bending of bodies required than in the most energetic of yoga classes. Most of the bending was over. You had to get down to where the enemy was and dispatch them with great haste. The end of one row became the beginning of another row. I liked the job better when performing it for the neighbors because the neighbors paid me. My father explained to me that the chores I did on the family farm were for my room and board.

My mother told me that walking bean rows was a perfect job because I could pause at the end of a weeded row, take a look back and see what I had accomplished.

We need to find satisfaction in what we do, even if it’s something as simple as defeating a weed in hand-to-hand combat.

Later in life, when I began filling out job applications, I listed walking bean rows as “Conducting field studies.”

My mother seemed to enjoy things more than most people. She found simple things to be full of wonder and joy. She was full of smiles. She saw the world at play. She wished upon a firefly.

Brendan Behan wrote, “Never throw stones at your mother, you’ll be sorry for it when she’s dead. Never throw stones at your mother, throw bricks at your father instead.”

Whenever I am where I should be, it’s because my mother carried me.

Whenever I say something that I should say, it’s because I listened to my mother. My mother’s words are comforting even when I’m the one saying them.

Whenever I am kind, it’s because I watched my mother.

These are the things I keep.

If there is such a thing as reincarnation, I hope my mother comes back as herself.

Thanks, Mom. I miss you.

 

Every man wants a tax loophole named after him

In general, humans seem to be ill-prepared for real life.

Time goes by too fast. We’re continually dumbstruck when a date on the calendar appears before we are ready for it.

The middle of April is a national holiday. It’s when the IRS looks at us as if we were somehow involved in paying for the things we use.

Is paying taxes worth a celebration? It’s the time of the year that turns us into income poops, but while we gnaw our fingernails down to the wrist and hope hard that $40,000 would cover the taxes on a $40,000 income, it’s Christmas for the government.

I saw a sign at a business recently. It read “The buck stops here, but not for long.” Another placard said, “In wrestling, the winner holds one hand in the air. When it comes to paying taxes, the loser has both hands in the air.”

The world revolves on its taxes.

This is a wonderful country. Taxes help make it so.

Still, tax forms do give our wallets suction.

Why do we pay taxes? Because not paying your taxes will get you into more spots than a flea on a leopard. If we don’t render unto the squeezers, we could be fined, jailed or, shudder, lose our Facebook privileges. That’s the motivation we need to write out that check. We also pay taxes because it’s our duty.

Arthur Godfrey said, “I’m proud to pay taxes in the United States; the only thing is, I could be just as proud for half the money.”

When it comes to taxes, we must focus on what is given, not what is taken away.

 

Al Batt’s columns appear in the Tribune every Wednesday and Sunday.