(My Mother's House Is On The Table...) ... and ready for its new owners.
(I have no idea why I fancy it is "on a table". I wuz reading Mme de Sevigne's letters, and the mood took me into franco-steampunk-o-phile associations.)
My mother's house has been sold and closed on, with nary a hitch... except at the bank where the niceties of Trusts and Trustees and the incorrigibly correct wording of documents of Trusts and financial instruments referring thereto were delved into interminably, while my mother sat there with a knowing look on her face.
The next day she called and asked me how to write a check for my brother.
She had not heard a word the banker had said.
Some things never change, no matter how truthful yet fruitless they have become, and my mother's belief (and - to be truthful - I suppose, mine also) that people tend to mumble, speak inaudibly, and to swallow words at the end of sentences - all of which is clearly true... just ask some foreign guys and dolls that come over here and try to speak to 'Mericans! - leads us into a state of Truth perversely joined from Joy...
For the fact that people mumble cannot be changed, and only by purchasing some sort of hearing assistance device ( such as an ear trumpet ) may we be able to engage in sock-in-the-mouth chit-chat with other blokes and frails.
She resists with the faith of a believer who has found Truth and Frustration, two gunwhales of the canoe of Life spread athwart by Irony.
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