Erma Bombeck Writing Competition - Winners
2004
Erma Bombeck Writing Competition
1st Place - Human Interest - Global
Liesa Thill
Baxter, Minnesota
"The Bun"
| It was an icon. A beacon. A touchstone to everything that was secure, familiar and true. It was The Bun. When she told me I'd be picking up the lady with short red hair at the airport, I choked, "Short?!" Before Princess Leia's tightly wound croissants, there was Mom's one-pound rye. Tamed by hairpins, bobby pins and nets, and usually topped by a jaunty beret, the thick red mass was more than a symbol ... it was Mom. Back when I was shorter than Bingo tables, clearance racks and library shelves, I'd look for The Bun. Ever-present, The Bun was home base. A little older, and taller, I breathlessly ran into the house, crowded with relatives assembled for a family reunion, and asked The Bun's permission to go to a friend's house. I was paralyzed with embarrassment when the bun turned, and it was an aunt who gushed, "Any little girl who calls me 'Mom' can do anything she wants!" My aunt's hairstyle was short-lived, but, I thought then, The Bun was eternal. And yet, I look through the crowded airport for--The Bob. Still topped by a jaunty beret, no doubt, but it makes me wonder. What will my daughters take with them? What is my Bun? The features that currently draw the most interest from my 2-year-old are my moles. The Mole. It may have worked for Cindy Crawford, but ... enough said. It's difficult to take stock of oneself, trying to recognize that trait which may become the thing of legends. My hands? Hmm, maybe--my fingers are long and narrow. But, oh! Mom's hands have always had genuine character--knuckles enlarged by arthritis, yet she always wears a ring her sister sent her from Africa. My average-sized, average-width feet? Mom's 9AAs require special orders at a real shoe store--no off-the-rack for her! The cleavage I keep so well hidden behind crewneck sweaters and t-shirts? That was when I realized Mom was getting old--her modest, so-slightly v-necked blouse revealed a wrinkled chest. As with so many other things in life that are beyond our control, I see now that I can't choose my Bun. I just have to run quickly on my average feet to be at my daughters' sides, touch them gently with these long, narrow fingers, and hug them tightly to my breast. Then, it will be up to each of them to pick that thing about me that says "Mom." That thing that will be their icon, beacon, and touchstone to everything that's secure, familiar and true. |