I’m from North Carolina but I don’t have much of an accent. My parents, however, do. Dogwalker David once likened my mother to Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie. When my mother calls, I can walk into the kitchen from the living room and leave the phone on the futon and still continue our conversation by yelling “uh-huh.” She’s that loud and continuous.
My parents say “perty,” as in: “that dress sure looks perty on you!” They affectionately refer to each other as “Mama” and “Daddy.” They drink sweet tea, hang holiday wreaths, and subscribe to the narrative school of no clear beginning or end. My friend Heather loves to recount the first time she met them. Heather was poised to take a bite of grilled chicken when my mother started describing the size of the tick she got from pruning crysthanemums, the tick that buried itself in her crotch and fed for days, the tick that my father removed on his hands and knees with a magnifying glass and tweasers.
My parents have a digital camera and send me pictures from home. All the time. But these aren’t necessarily the pictures I would choose to send. For example, while I am particularly impressed by this action shot of me about to strike Jeffery with a hammer:
my parents would rather keep me up to date on flowers, birds, gift baskets, and the occasional albino squirrel. I grew up on a lake so there is plenty of photographic fodder.
Here’s a heron in our backyard:
And a fat unidentified bird:
A planter of red carnations:
How about a raffle basket:
Photographed from multiple angles:
Bored yet? Check out these bedroom shutters:
Ooh, this one’s good. This is the uprooted tree that fell on the “rough” during last weekend’s Noreaster:
But along with the tree came a series of damage holes that just, well, cluttered up my inbox:
My parents are awesome. They can’t understand how I’m too busy formatting this:
to ever consider taking this: