When Pigs Fly by Laurie Buchanan
Yesterday—Mother’s Day—I thought a lot about my mom. She died in 1991 from breast cancer at the age of 53. Although she was small in stature, she was one of the biggest people I’ve ever known. She taught me by example that how we live impacts how we die. She lived a life of courage, beauty, and integrity—she died in the same manner. And she was hysterical! When I was growing up her way of saying “no” was, “When pigs fly!” The quirky way she said it took the edge off of her denial to my request … and trust me, it was always for my own good.
Outside my office window at HolEssence I keep a bird feeder. We buy seed in 50 lb. sacks and go through it quickly. Watching these birds, I thought, “These guys are pigs … little pigs that fly!” Last evening as I was enjoying (okay, pigging out on) the full bag of sinfully delicious Hawaiian Kettle BBQ chips and red licorice that my son gave me for Mother’s Day—my favorites—somewhere in the distance I swear heard my mother’s voice, “When pigs fly!” Trust me; it would have been for my own good. Had I listened, I wouldn’t still be waddling around like a plump goose this morning.
Tuesdays with Laurie 