My Mother's Hands

When I was little, I remember so few things. Now that I’m older, I regret not being able to call upon the very memories I took for granted. I’m sure my earliest was that of my brother peering through the bars of my crib checking out his new sister. His face was jammed in between two with a huge smile from ear to ear while his hands held onto two other bars as if in jail. Mom used to tell me stories of when that little man would do unspeakable things to his sister from dragging her around the house by her long hair to his Peter Pan-ish ability to convince that gullible girl she I could fly…right out the third story window of our English home.

Years later, I remember slipping my fingers into Mom’s hand after that stinker threw a snowball right at me. She was to protect me from that boisterous little boy, protect me from everything…Not only did she hold my hand but she held my little world. There came a day when she couldn’t prevent the harm done to me and on that hand she held was a scar I still have nightmares about even at the age I am now.

There was this particular Easter, Mom bought me this frilly pink dress (yes me in pink) and little white gloves to wear. I felt like a princess with my hair all done up and ruffles to boot. I remember her silhouette as we walked hand in hand up the steps of the church as I looked down at my shiny shoes one step at a time. Her hair was long and straight and the ends blew with the breeze, on her face was a smile as she removed a stray strand from her face. 30 some odd years later I look in the mirror and the very face I see is the same I remember smiling down at me. You wouldn’t think a person could have such vivid thoughts but as I mentioned before, they were select things. I didn’t remember the rest of the people or events, just little tidbits here and there but mostly it was when I was with my Mom.

She’s held my hand through out my life. My mom was my best friend. Her hand held mine through tears and laughter, through adversity and despair, through life and death…My hands, small compared to hers, wasn’t strong enough. Being held up by her helped me through some very rough times.

I’m sure if you asked her, she’ll say we kids grew up fast. We became independent and when it came time to move on, we didn’t need the hand to guide our steps. As a parent, I’ve come to realize the better we do our job, the less our children will rely on us. My goal as a mother is to send each of my children out into the world as capable, confident adults who are not afraid to seek out their dreams because I have taught them, strengthened them and provided for them well, emotionally, physically and spiritually. I’ve already experienced the growing pains as my own little boys have become little men. The little hands that clenched my finger have become larger and now fit into my own hand.

These days, it’s not my hand that she holds, for my children have beaten me to the mark. It is they who scramble to Grandmama and slip a hand in hers. These days, this woman who believes she’s not strong enough to meet the day is, in my family’s opinion, still strong enough to hold not one but three worlds.

The other day she came to see me. We worked a yard that had suffered from years of neglect; weeds had grown tall and tangled among the flowers we had planted with our own hands. My negligence was just as personal in my life as it was in my garden. The thorns that pricked and made me bleed were just as painful as the thorns I wore about my existence. After just one day, we noticed the improvement as our hands were stained and filthy. The next day she arrived with 2 pairs of gloves to protect our very sore fingers and I laughed at the size my mom wore. A child’s glove…

I placed my hand on hers to compare and noticed hers fit easily in mine and how soft her skin still was. It was so contrary to when my own were small and fragile. I flashed back to the day that I grabbed her hand in fright, in desperation, and in direction. My mother’s hands were a safe haven, my strength, my world. For 38 years my Mother held my hand, for 38 years she held up my world, especially when it spun out of control. Holding her hand that day, I recall the little girl in the pink dress with hands gloved in white and how she walked me up the steps to a greater place.

She claims her hands have grown tired and weak. Looking down at my own, I see that mine are shaky and my fingers are calloused and scarred but I believe they are strong enough and it is my turn to hold my Mother’s hands.

Ding Dong's vs Ho Ho's

About 40 years ago, the Hostess Company burst out on the market not 1 but 2 delectable snack cakes for us to enjoy, the Ho Ho and the Ding Dong. Even though they looked quite different, each one essentially had the same ingredients of devils food chocolate cake and creamy white filling and a shit load of calories to boot all wrapped up in either a thin plastic wrapper or aluminum foil. Well, the foil is long gone and replaced by the plastic but the delectable and decadent treat has withstood the test of time.

These 2 treats have been frozen, sliced and served on everything from paper plates to wedding cakes, and licked off fingers of the young and old over the past 4 decades. And in those 40 years questions have been raised as to why they were named as they were. Even though the Ho Ho has stayed the same, the Ding Dong was subject to copyrights and competition, being referred briefly as the King Dong (please don’t laugh) and Big Wheels.

Now help me here if you can…

I haven’t written this blog in hopes to educate the masses about their history but to debate as to why the Ding Dong was shaped like a hockey puck and the Ho Ho was long and skinny. I found quite a few references to the opinions of many that believe that the Ding Dong should have been the tubular treat and the Ho Ho should have been the round delectable dessert. I’m sure there are other people out that that believe this is very sexist but to be totally honest, they have a point. Hostess, who is owned by Interstate Bakeries Corporation (hella name isn’t it?) has repeatedly declined to comment anymore on this claiming that it was merely society’s machination to soil an otherwise spotless reputation and even became belligerent once by stating that the media should shove a Twinkie up their ass. Hmmm…

I’ll ask you, should the Ding Dong be shaped like the Ho Ho? If we said yes, does that make us sexually deviant and dirty? Below are some rather interesting opinions I found online:

Ding Dongs shouldn’t be round. Well they should be but not flat. They should be like Ho Ho’s because we all know that Ding Dongs are, well, you know.

I used to love Ding Dongs. I’d unwrap the foil and eat the chocolate off then stick my tongue inside and eat the cream out. I got in trouble at school when I was a lad for doing that. I don’t understand why Ding Dongs weren’t called Ho Hos. When I was in the military we used to…(I’ve not included the rest of this post since this was a public site and there are young impressionable adults and teens on my friends list)

Ho Hos…Ho Hos? If I saw a Ho with a Ho Ho, I’d think twice!

I saw a girl eat a frozen one once. No wonder they called her a Ho.

If my man had a stubby Ding Dong, I’d no doubt go to the competition and get myself a King Dong!

Oh don’t make me start on Don Imus again

(girl)Does it make me different that I enjoy Ding Dongs better?

(boy)Does it make me different if I like eat Ho Hos?

I think we should leave the names alone, otherwise my mom wouldn’t by them for me and I’d have to sneak them in my bedroom like my dad does with his magazines.

Dong’s before Ho’s, man


These are all references to the misconceptions our society has when it comes to 2 of our favorite afternoon snacks. It’s been racially charged and flat out derogatory and it’s fighting off daily attacks from the politically correct. Did Hostess do the right thing when it named the treats over 40 years ago? Would there have been more issues today if they had switched? Does it make you wonder what the Twinkie was really named after?

I’m curious…but would have to say that Ding Dongs should have been Ho Hos. It fits better and upon reading even more opinions, I just may have issues eating a Ding Dong from now on, I’d feel dirty…

I Got Skills, Yo

Bubba: Ooooooh THAT was righteous!

Poo: *gags* Open a window MoM!!

Bubba: …and that was just the beginning. Don’t do it, MoM! He did me dirty the other day!

Poo: …can’t…breathe…must…have…air…*passes out*

Mom: What? Seriously, I don’t smell anything

Poo: You can’t smell that?

Mom: I thought you passed out?

Poo: Doh! *re-passes out*

Bubba: Wait, wait, wait….*fans his face*

Mom: Roll’em down

Bubba: I got mad skills

Mom: You need to go home and shovel your shorts out

Poo: *mumbles* Is it safe to breathe?

Mom: Not unless you want your nose hairs permanently scorched

Poo: *re-passes out, giggling*

Bubba: I just can’t stop…Ooops I did it again…Oooooooooh that burned…

Mom: Dear Gawd, child, what did your father give you to eat?

Bubba: I don’t know, he just gave me his skills. I so rock.

Mom: Wait, did you just say your father gave you these skills?

Bubba: Yeah, duh

Mom: Your father?

Bubba: The one and only….Ooooh that one… whew!

Poo: …can’t…breathe…

Mom: You didn’t get your skills from your father. That man no more knows how to fart and admit to said flatulence than Brittney Spears knows how to sing. *rolls window back up…locks them*

Poo: Burn…

Bubba: *laughs like a little girl* If that’s the case then where do I get it from them?

Poo: It’s farts, it’s not like there’s a fart gene or something

Mom: I beg to differ with you, my son

Poo: What?

Mom: The Gene of Flatulantery is handed down in our family.

Bubba: Wha?

Mom: I’m not kidding. You’re great great great grandfather Chief Blows from Butt was well known for his achievements. Taught his wife, everything he knew.

Bubba: Mooom! You’re pullin my leg

Mom: No, no actually, I’m pulling your finger. But I speak the truth my young son. Your grandfather was able to actually levitate furniture and conjure up great magic when he used his skill. Herds of pink elephants used to roam under the dining room table. Your grandmother even was known for utilizing her skill when refinishing wooden chairs, oh what a shine. You’re uncle Charlie, man… he could light a match and start a bon fire just…like…that…*wipes tear away* Oh oh oh Your uncle Garin, he was the master. He got his skill from the chief’s wife, Pulls my Finger. Your cousins, they’re honing their skills too, so you have a lot to learn, kids.

Bubba: You are so full of it, mom, funny but full of it.

Mom: It’s the truth! Where do you think you got your skill from? And if you mention your father again, I’ma slap you. His side of the family are too prudish when it comes to Flatulence.

Poo: You?

Mom: You got it! I’m not without my own mad skills, yo

Bubba: Right…

Mom: Think what you will, but one day you will thank me for all that I have taught you.

Time passes as the last few miles go by, children are both quiet and then…

Poo: Trevor! OH! That was just…Oooh! *covers mouth, puts jacket over his head*

Bubba: What? I didn’t do anything. Oooh that wasn’t me, I swear! Oooooh wow….My eyes are crying, Jack you are just nasty!

Poo: Wasn’t me! Roll the window down, I can’t breathe

Bubba: I can’t, it’s locked… *cough*

Poo & Bubba: Mooooooom!

Mom: Told you I got skills *pulls into the drive way….children open doors and fallout, gasping for air*

Bubba: *cough*

Poo: *unresponsive*

Mom: *walks around the car smirking* I got the Silent but deadly gene

Poo & Bubba: We are not worthy…We’re not worthy