My (German) Momma.

My Momma and Daddy met right after Daddy got out of Vietnam. 

Daddy went to Germany to visit his father, who was stationed at an Air Force base not too far away from where Momma grew up. 

Momma was 17 years old and had missed her bus to a concert.  Determined to get there regardless, she decided to hitchhike.  No, it wasn’t the wisest or safest decision, but I’m pretty glad that she didn’t give up and just decide to stay home for the evening.   Because the man that stopped to give her a ride would eventually become my Daddy.  

How cool is that?

Daddy spoke no German and Momma spoke very little English.  But that evidently wasn’t too much of an issue, because they have been married for over 35 years. 

Even though she has lived in America for many, many years, Momma’s German accent is still pretty thick and noticeable.  (I couldn’t ever hear it when I was a kid, but now that I have been out of the house for years, I can definitely tell it is there.)  Sometimes, when I meet new people and they find out that Momma has an accent, they beg me to call her and put her on speaker phone so that they can hear her talk. 

She eventually realized what I was up to, so she figured out ways to retaliate. 

One time, when I had her on speaker in front of some of my friends, she asked me about my hemorrhoids and if they were healing properly. 

I didn’t really have hemorrhoids. 

I didn’t really have a way to prove that to my friends. 

Aside from her joy in humiliating me when she catches me trying to exploit her accent, Momma is one of the best people you will ever meet.  No lie. She refuses to speak unkindly of anyone, and she won’t take part in anything that she feels will cause injustice or hurt to another person.  And she is the best cook, ever.  She owns a little German bakery in my home town and anyone in that area will swear that her food is what miracles are made of.  (Yes, I am aware that I just ended a sentence with a preposition.)

But my Momma thinks that absolutely anything can be fixed with herbal remedies. 

Growing up, I was forced to eat and drink some of the most horrid things.  I know now that they were very, very good for me and that Momma never had anything buy my best interest in mind, but gracious, I don’t know where she came up with some of these concoctions. 

As I grew older, herbal supplements started becoming trendier and more readily available in stores. For the most part, Momma took advantage of these new developments, and what she had once spent hours mixing, mashing, and force-feeding me (and often my Daddy… poor man), she now could simply purchase in a bottle.

Believe me.  She took full advantage of this for a good while.  Other kids my age were getting cars and cell phones for Christmas.  I would get bottles of valerian root and fish oil. 

I promise you, I’m not even exaggerating.

But about a year ago she started to digress.  Every time I would talk to her on the phone she would tell me about some new disgusting sounding concoction that she was attempting to perfect.  When I would ask to talk to Daddy, he always seemed to be somewhere else or doing something else.

I don’t blame the man.  He was hiding from Momma’s good intentions.

A few months ago, I went home to see my parents. 

This is what my Momma had waiting for me:

I kid you not.  She expected me to drink it. 

Don’t ask me what is in it.  I have NO idea.  And as you learned from a previous post, I have issues with anything that may look like goose poop.  Tell me that whatever the heck is in that glass doesn’t look like goose poop.  And I highly doubt you would drink it, either.

That’s all for today. 

Love you, Momma.  Just not the awful things you try to make me ingest sometimes.