S(N)AKES ALIVE! Mother's Day Mayhem
By Patricia Misiuk

Every May I schlep shoeless through airport security, wedge myself into a kid-size seat, munch on salty snacks and, three hours later, join the flotsam and jetsam of humanity charging toward the Jetway. Then if I’m lucky, I claim my luggage and drive to see Mom, 93, for Mother’s Day.

Traditionalists roll their eyes when I mention my not-so-normal way of showing my love and appreciation for the woman who spent an entire week in on-again, off-again labor before I kicked and screamed my way into the world.

“Give the gift of self,” Mom always told us. “I don’t need cards, candy or a dinner in a crowded restaurant.”

After more than 50 years of signing smarmy greeting cards and giftwrapping chocolate-covered cherries, I finally heeded her advice. To kick off this wish, I unclogged the disposal on Millennium Mother’s Day while Mom, knowing I limit meal preparation to nukeable or boil-in-bag fare, cooked dinner.

My brother and I ushered in last year’s Mother’s Day by lugging wheelbarrows full of dirt and seeding Mom’s weed-infested lawn. Two hours into digging and dumping dirt, my brother groaned, “I think I strained my stomach muscles.”
Then Mom added, “The toilet won’t flush.”

We abandoned Project Green Lawn. Brother downed pain pills and I segued into plumber mode. With a plunger in one hand and a long metal snake in the other, I attacked the temperamental toilet. The plunger worked in reverse as sludge and – well, use your imagination – filled the bowl and cascaded on to the floor.

“I need to use the bathroom,” Brother said. “Now I think I got food poisoning yesterday. (No, I did not cook; he ate in a greasy spoon.) I ignored his plea.

As I uncoiled the metal snake in its serpentine journey through the sewer line, I muttered four-letter words when scum and muck regurgitated over the bowl’s rim. I was progressing nicely when suddenly the snake refused to budge.
Just then, the toilet burped and gurgled. I rewound the snake and the bowl emptied. Brother was happy until an uh-oh moment a short time later. Double déjà vu: a brother doubled over in pain and a toilet exhibiting reflux. Nobody cooked dinner that night. Mom and I numbed our sorrows in a six-pack of…Klondike Bars.

“I think we need a ‘real’ plumber,” I said, after taking Brother to the ER. Long story short: midnight surgery for a ruptured appendix.

The “real” plumber stopped by the next morning. “I can’t fix it; that’ll be $85 for the service call.”

He suggested phoning somebody to clear the sewer line. Now with Brother hooked up to IVs and draining tubes, we no longer had to cope with his beelining to a moody toilet. The grim reamer – my take on his attitude and line of work – determined tree roots were the culprits. Two hours and $300 later, all plumbing systems were “go.”

Soon I’ll head north to offer another “gift of self.” I’m limited due to my rotator cuff injury incurred either lugging dirt or maneuvering the snake. Since disasters involving water and moving parts invariably surface on Mother’s Day, I’ll be ready. And since I can still drive, I’ll swing by the market and buy the ultimate stress reliever…a six-pack of Klondike Bars.