Spots

 Mom seems somewhat comfortable. She begs for constant attention at Ross, but honestly, Mom has literally always needed that kind of attention. This has been the hardest part of raising her. I cannot really point to where this behavior may have developed. She lost her dad when she was quite young. That may be a part of it. But her mom was clingy and needy as well. I love and miss Grandma Hillhouse, but it would be an incomplete record to only mention her laughter and her love of flowery prints. Grandma H was a big problem for a lot of people in her day.

She somehow found that the housing authority could provide her with apartment living. The people who made that commitment were nearly sorry when they met Myrtle Hillhouse. She was a good tenant in that she would keep a place clean, and she was very quiet. But she was literally never happy with any of the details. I could write a book about her dissatisfaction and how she would squeak until the proper grease was applied, but suffice it to say that Grandma H was literally never satisfied.

Without telling that entire story here and now, I will say that it must have been the work of a gene. It must have been pork in a bill that somehow got passed. It was an epigenetic tag that went right into the formation of the egg that held the embryo that would become my mom.

And, without telling you the whole story all over again, I will admit that I inherited that very gene, and it was turned on at birth. I have, however, been giving everything I’ve got to tripping that breaker for 61 years so far.

Dissatisfaction is a disease. By its very definition, the word disease means something less than ideal.

Very early in my story, examples of this disease include my dissatisfaction when my dad brought home a model airplane he’d been working on for days. He had hinted at the project without giving me many details. As a little boy, my imagination ran away, and I assumed my dad was building me an airplane I could actually board and fly. I can still remember the day he brought the RC-sized airplane home, complete with two carved pilots who perpetually stared straight ahead. Looking back, I cannot believe I was disappointed in what is now one of my most cherished possessions. The yellow NC47 hangs from the ceiling, over the fridge in our basement kitchenette. Every time I see it, I am reminded of the way I reacted to that priceless gift when I received it. I am ashamed of myself, and I have asked my dad’s ghost to forgive me a thousand times.

Fast forward to 1986, when I was researching the best cars on the road on behalf of my mom. I wanted her to be in the most dependable car in the world. I wanted it to be safe and comfortable too. At that time, I found this kind of quality in the Toyota Camry. I thought I had finally scored the best car in the whole world for only $6,500. I even bought it with my own money, but I had to put that right back in the bank—it was all I had. After getting the Camry all cleaned up, oil changed, and new tires, I finally drove it out to Mom’s to show her what I had been working on. I was so excited. This was my best purchase so far. It was a fine car.

Mom walked out and saw it from the porch at first. “It’s nice,” she said, but I noticed some caution, and I was not sure it was sincere. She went down the steps and to the driveway and walked around it. And then, Mom got in the car of my dreams—perhaps not hers.

“What is on the windshield?” she asked.

Barely noticeable, and only in the right light, you could see some effects of acid rain on the windshield. I noticed them too, but I’d hired a company to buff them with compound, and the glass was just about perfectly clear—perhaps even 97% clear.

“I see spots,” said Mom. “I don’t want it if it’s got spots on the windshield.”

I was in a predicament. I had miscalculated her response, and I was out my life’s savings. I will never forget the panic I felt. If Mom did not repay me for this effort, I was going to be in big trouble. I had no choice but to make a totally different case.

“Can you loan me the money I’ve got in it until I can sell it?” I pleaded.

“We’ll see,” she said.

With that, I drove that nearly perfect Camry back to K&W Auto Sales, where everyone seemed as surprised as I was. I called the windshield buffing company back and had them buff the glass again. This time, it was just about impossible to see any acid rain anywhere. After that, I drove back to Mom’s and miraculously passed this second inspection just in the nick of time. My mortgage payment and my car payment would not be late.

Mom was never cured of this lifelong disease. Yesterday, it was Bill who tried to calm her when her lunch was not salted to taste. Of course, there are medical reasons for this imperfection, but Mom’s policy is to demand what you want regardless.

Comcast found this out the hard way. They were very excited when we called to disconnect her cable. Until very recently, the folks at Comcast would get a call from a very angry customer whenever she was dissatisfied with any of their many services—and this was nearly every day. And Mom had a superpower she would use: “I’ll hold,” she would say. It was not unusual for Mom to be on the phone with Comcast for over an hour, just so she could finally talk to someone who could make the necessary adjustments. I actually felt sorry for the company. They tried. Whenever you enjoy your Comcast services today, my Mom had a lot to do with most of the advances they had to make.

I hate the fact that Mom will never be satisfied. She spent many of her last years in an electric recliner that did a lot of the hard work of getting up and sitting down. Of course, the La-Z-Boy Corporation has associates assigned to Mom as well. Market watchers who have considered the volatility of La-Z-Boy stocks (NYSE: LZB) will eventually discover that the company’s misses on earnings are a direct result of my mom’s dissatisfaction with a recliner they foolishly guaranteed for life.

While Mom never had a mortgage or a car payment, she found ownership just as troublesome. Tucked behind a pine forest, laden with homegrown azaleas, Mom became obsessed instead with the distant travelers on the highway and the sidewalk at the end of her estate-like gardens.

“I look out and I can only see trees,” she would say.

We finally had to hire a tree service to dispatch the private forest so that Mom could see the road instead. Turns out, the actual location of the paid-for home was the real problem. She seemed to want the house to be closer to the road so that she could tell more about the travelers as they passed. I know—it sounds ridiculous, but this was one of the complaints we never quite dealt with. But I am sure that at least one of us, her four children, has looked into the costs associated with moving a house.

We did learn to read her reactions and categorize them based on what we knew about her displeasure. We learned that if something was wonderful, her reaction would be, “It’s alright.” If we rented a cabin on a mountain in Estes Park, Colorado, we knew we’d hit the jackpot if she said, “It’s okay.” Luxury and extravagance were never enough to get Mom beyond, “It’s fine.”

Now, as she begins her final ascent on Earth, I worry about the mansions Jesus promised. I know He has had a couple thousand years to get things ready, but I know Mom. Can’t you just see the look on Jesus’ face when He learns that His job is that of the typical HGTV real estate agent when it comes to Mom?

“And here, we have the golden street you will be living on,” says Jesus.

“Oh no,” says Mom. “I never cared for gold.”

“Oh, okay,” says Jesus. “Well, your family will be living on this same street, and they all have new bodies and are in perfect health.”

“Where’s the Dollar Tree?” Mom will ask.