Things my mother said

These excerpts are from my 2002-2004 diary. I was just looking through it, seeing if I could plagiarize myself for the good of this blog, and instead, I got caught up with my parents' rather dark sense of humor:
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We got off the ferry and started walking back to the apartment. Dad was in front. Someone told him to look back at little Billy, and he turned around and promptly backed into a garbage can, almost falling in. It was like slow motion as we grabbed at him to keep him upright. He cut himself quite badly.

As we expressed loud sympathy, he said, "Oh, don't worry. It's just God's way of telling me where I belong."
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I told Mom last night that California is heaven.

She said, "I don't know if I really want to live somewhere like heaven. It'll just remind me that I'm going to be in heaven shortly."

Although I know her sense of humour, I was too shocked to say anything.

"Silent, are you? So you agree?"
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When I asked them where they were moving, Mom said they had bought a little van with a shower, and were just going to hit the road. Dad said they would do a Hitchcock, but go south by southwest. She really had me on the van, until I kept pressing them about the other amenities it provided besides a shower.

I never did find out where they were moving.
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Dad's reading 'A Thread Across the Ocean' about the transatlantic cable. Mom came up and said, "Your father's got a noble face."

I said, "You both look regal. Aristocratic."

"No, I don't, but your dad does. I can see his effigy."

Dad kept on reading throughout this conversation. Mom said, "I keep trying to get a rise out of him, but it doesn't work."
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This one is from when I was living in London:

"G, who discovered penicillin?" I asked.

"Pasteur."

"No, no, the guy had to have been British."

"This is when one needs the Internet."

I said I knew a faster way to get the answer, and called my parents. My dad was out of breath when he answered the phone: "You know that Chinese wall we have. Well, we've been putting together a box for it. It's getting big enough that by the time we finish, it'll be just the right size for a double coffin for your mother and myself."

"Dad!"

He chuckled, and I could hear my mom laughing in the background.

(When I related this to G, he shook his head and said, "Your family has a really black sense of humour.")

"Dad, I actually called with a specific question. Who discovered penicillin?"

"Fleming. In 1928. He was sitting at his desk when the spores floated in through the window and landed on a bacterial culture. He noticed that all the bacteria died, and wrote it up and published. But he didn't do anything about it. Ten years later, at the start of the war, the government got hold of it and that's when penicillin first became available."

I looked smugly at G, as he had called me a loser for not using the Internet. But, I swear, my dad knows everything. And, he has a back-up anecdote for everything. And what he doesn't know, my mom does, though she always doubts herself at the end and will ask him for verification. Dad seemed quite interested that the spore-producing pub still exists.
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Mother called. She's worried about the sale and the moving, and said she had been angry with Dad, but that they had a good talk at Starbucks. She recounted it:

Dad said, "We can move to Niagara-on-the-Lake, you know. I like it there, too."

"But it wouldn't be good for your work."

"I want to be with you."

Mom told me, "That was so sweet of him to say, I about melted."
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And now, part of an email my mother sent me in October of 2001 (I had just moved to London):

Dearest Kellas,
Surprise, I received an e-mail -- from you, which cheered me up considerably. Everything seems to be going well for you. And I am so glad that that is so, since a better person could not be found to enjoy such a condition. A toast to you -- that Kellas should be happy always. I enjoyed your walk along the river, after leaving the tube, and felt I could see it myself and the surroundings. The sunshine would be welcome here -- it's cold with a brisk wind bringing a reminder of winter soon to come.

...

Well, my dearest girl, it's time --
love now and forever, Mother.
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My mom passed away in October of 2004.