… fresh walleye (caught by my husband) had seemed the perfect choice. And, it was the perfect choice — right up until I reached for my glass of water to sooth a sudden, violent urge to cough on my last forkful.

The chords resonate through the walls, along the hallway, and down the stairs to where I lean on the handrail. Even if he could hear me, I don’t think he would — not when he’s in this other place: the place where he goes when he plays, a place where only he and his guitar exist.

The bus driver looked down at me and then significantly at his watch. In a voice as deep as the Brylcreem in his hair, he said, “You’d better get a hitch in your get-along.”

I took one more look at the isolated stretch of fly fishing paradise and then clambered back up the muddy incline to the old stone bridge and our nearby car. I returned in my waders and wading boots, a 6 weight fly rod in hand, a wide-brimmed hat over my ponytail.

At this point in his story, my smile changed from amusement to understanding — a co-conspirator’s smile — because I know the joy that comes from scaring my husband. That “scared jump thing” my hubby mentioned? Well, it’s more of a scared jump jig. It’s hilarious. And it fills my heart with happiness — a pony for your birthday sort of happiness.

In honour of Mother’s Day, on the 12th of this month, this story is about my mom.

Amidst this strange new world, not only am I the lone family member without camouflage clothing, I am the mom. Despite this, I am not supposed to worry when my resident teenage mechanic (son #2) walks into the house with a burn hole in his coveralls and his hand raised to stop me from asking, “What exploded this time?”

I looked at my boys, who were frozen in place, eyes wide and mouths open. “Are you okay?” my youngest asked carefully.