When a person gets to be my age they wonder what they can get their mother for Mother’s Day. My mother pretty well has everything. She obviously has the greatest kids in the world, I mean, look at me - smart, good looking, humble. Okay, so maybe not humble. But I truly can’t think of anything she needs. I asked her what she needed once and she said, “If I needed it, I already got it.”

That leaves a person in quite a dilemma as to what gift can be purchased. I suppose I could purchase flowers for her, but everybody does that. I could purchase chocolates, and then, being the thoughtful son I am, I could hang around when she opened them, in case she needed some help disposing of them. However, these two typical gifts seem so lacking in creativity.

Most people who know me might suggest that is why they are right up my alley. My married daughters get the same big, chocolate candy bar for whatever big occasions comes along - birthdays, Easter, the celebration of their children being potty trained, etc. Of course, they don’t complain, mind you, but just once it might be nice to be known as someone with a little bit of ingenuity.

I was considering one other safe bet. I could get my mother a book. Sure, she has a million books, but there is always another good one that she hasn’t read - I’m thinking in particular about the ones I have written. Maybe I could then get her to write a glowing evaluation of it, since no one else I know wants to. But when I asked her if she would like one of my books for Mother’s Day, she side-stepped the issue nicely and didn’t even bite. “What I would really like is some help around the yard.”

So I took my tiller over and tilled her garden, and tilled her garden, and tilled her garden, which is roughly the size of Yellowstone National Park. I dug and moved plants, cut brush, hauled hoses, dug out weeds, reduced poverty and strife, and corrected all the problems in the UN.

When I finished four hours later, my body, that is used to a sedentary life style, was exhausted, but the change in the yard was exhilarating. Everything was clean and neat and looked good and I felt I had truly given a good Mother’s Day gift.

The next day, however, I could hardly convince my muscles into letting me get out of bed. I dragged myself to the shower, then to breakfast, then to church. At church I visited with one of my friends. He was walking like a duck and every movement seemed to illicit a groan. When I inquired what the problem was he said he made the mistake of asking his mother what she wanted for Mother’s Day.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he continued, with the all-too-familiar story. “She told me she wanted a full day of work on her yards. She had me cut limbs, dig ditches, till the garden, and everything else imaginable. I don’t think I’ve ever hurt so bad in my entire life.”

I laughed. “Sounds kind of like my day.”

“You think that’s bad,” he complained. “My wife thinks I ought to do the same thing for her mother next week.”

“Good luck,” I said, encouragingly.

“Yeah, right,” he almost growled under his breath. “Next year I’m not going to be stupid enough to ask my mom what she wants. Next year I’m just going to buy her a book.”

(Daris Howard, award-winning, syndicated columnist and playwright, is author of “Super Cowboy Rides” and can be contacted at daris@darishoward.com; or visit his website at http://www.darishoward.com) 

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