It’s not unusual for me to think of my mother.  She was a force to be reckoned with and from feminism and progressive politics to arts, crafts and approaching the mundane with a creative flair to just wanting to be a contrarian, she formed a lot of who I am today.

With the hot fucking mess that is Donald Trump in the Whitehouse and the latest wave of Catholic scandals, she’d be on fire.  Her acid wit would burn holes in the atmosphere as she would undoubtedly be glued to CNN fueling an internal flame of discontent.  “Me too” would likely create rants of how is it that men have stayed in power this long and why not give women a chance?

Lately, though, there’s a restlessness that has me thinking, “What would Pat do?”

I keep wondering if I’ve stayed too long at the fair in terms of employment.  She’d totally understand my simmering thoughts about appreciation.  Much more basically, she’d probably remark casually that the longer you stay anywhere the easier it is for your contribution to become the status quo, and everyone forgets how hard you work. You know, she’d say laughing, “Familiarity breeds contempt.”

But, at the same time, she’d be the worrying voice that tells you to keep a good job and not take any chances.  My worrying voice about money, work, the mortgage, all of it is her voice.

Yet, we both know, she knew when she was here on earth, that I probably shouldn’t let myself become too complacent.  We’d fight, of course, and she’d find many, many ways to tell me that I’m crazy.  And, she’d be absofuckinglutely right.

But, yet, there would be a glint of appreciation. Some pride.  And, she would agree,

“Nolite te Bastardes Carborundorum.”

And, for you, Pat.  For everything you’ve taught me, I still tilt at windmills to mix a literary metaphor.  I still fight the power.  And, I always just laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Finally, for the tulips at the top, a friend–who also remembers and needs herself to be reminded sometimes to never allow yourself to be ground down–shared them for the ides of March and esprit to guerre.  Maybe somewhere in the infinite space the spirits of those who make this date important to each of us are sharing a joke.