Walla Walla WA

In a less generous moment, I might say that we need to start looking at old folks' homes for my mother. Like all of us, she has good days and bad: at her age, the bad can seem scary for those of us still coming to terms with middle age. But there are still plenty of good days in her.

She is on my mind as a package arrived today bearing her return address. She had not only managed to find a present for Little One and our address and a box, but got it shipped out to arrive a day early! But she did warn me that she had enclosed something she couldn't bear to throw away.

So it was with trepidation that I opened it--wanting to spare Little One from any trauma from unpacking garbage for his birthday, and there it was, nestled amidst cornstarch packing peanuts (she saves them for me, since she knows of my green leanings) and cheery tissue paper: a brown paper sack that read, "Remember? This was the last can--(it spoiled) But I thot the label was worth saving! xxx Mom. P.S. Happy Anniversary!"

Now, you have to understand the history of gifts from my mother: the makeup brush kit, the French provincial salt and pepper shakers and the glass pig are all legendary. I was almost afraid to open it. Was it the clam chowder that they don't make any more? It couldn't be the moon peaches (peaches we put up the day Neil Armstrong took that small step), since they were in a glass jar--spoiled, no doubt, but I know that last jar is still on the shelf as a historical relic.

So I take it out, let out my breath, and smile. Yes, I remember. Shortly after my family moved to Portland, we discovered the joys of fresh asparagus. We had survived our first, dark, grey, Pacific Northwest winter (my father did not go lightly, but cursed it loudly from the front porch, much to my mother's chagrin). My mother's lunch buddies decided to can asparagus, and arranged a date in a real canning facility. They went and trimmed the delicate stems, packed them in tins (upside down), and the facility put the lids on and processed them. She came home with a dozen or so naked tin cans, and I asked if I could label them. My father must have been enamored with the provenance, and started singing about Walsh's Walla Walla Asparagus. Kind of catchy.