Every Photog Has a Mom

I know, I know - you come here for churlish commentary on local TV news and I hit you with a Mothers Day post. But indulge me for just this once, won’t you? It’s a gorgeous Sunday afternoon and the fruitless pursuit of drama and deadlines is the farthest thing from my mind. So as I sit here and watch my kids turn a brand new Slip -N-Slide into a wet wilted bladder of plastic and grass, lemme throw a shout-out to all the matriarchs in the house…

We’ll start with MY Mom. It’s easier that way, since I don’t know yours. Besides, Brenda Pittman taught me better manners than to prattle on about someone’s mother in cyberspace, even if she never quite put it that way. But being polite is just one small tenet of the Southern Fried Christian ideals my dear Mother fought so hard to impress on Yours Truly. With the help of my Dad Garlon, she raised three rambunctious hoodlums to be upstanding taxpayers. She did it with a limited budget and in tight quarters, all while working a forty hour week as a pediatrics nurse. Of course we boys didn’t make it easy for her, instead we tortured each other, ran the back roads of Saulston Proper and tested the limits of this dear woman’s patience. I alone was a turbulent middle kid brimming with smart-ass comebacks and a dozen other issues. Somehow, Mom never strangled me. For that, I thank her and have worked to repay her with birthday granddaughter visits like the one pictured above. it’s the least I can do.

Another Mother I’d deeply in debt to is my own lovely bride. I must say, when Shelly sashayed into my life back in ‘86, what kind of mother she’d make was not on my mind. But lo and behold that five feet of fireball I married 15 years ago has morphed into the World’s Most Perfect Mom - at least in my house, anyway. The true benefactors of her gift are of course my girls, who have yet to grasp that not EVERY Mom can make designer cakes, play classical piano, paint six rooms and re-caulk the tub before Daddy rolls in his clown-act every evening. I’ve known for years Shelly was Superwoman: one day the girls will figure it out. Maybe they’ll find her cape. Or maybe it’ll hit ‘em when Mommy’s away at her E.R. gig. Surely the sensation of this grumpy lenslinger trying to braid your hair into something passable for public appearance is enough to make one pine for a Mother’s touch. It sure does for me. So before I have to quell another backyard insurrection, let me salute all the Moms out there, for the best of you are indeed national treasures.

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