My Mother’s Poem

So last year, we had to move my folks into an assisted living facility. They’re doing really well there; the place is great, with lots of activities. And I turned around and my Mom had joined a book club! She’d been so busy for years taking care of their old house, but now she has time to do things she enjoys. Anyways, part of her book club assignment was to write a poem. A poem! My 84(!) year old mother writing a poem! Something I thought I’d never see… Anyway, it’s about my 90(!) year old father’s mutton chops. I told her I’d post it on my blog, (yup, I’m a Mama’s boy, don’t care who knows it) so take it away, Mom!


You didn’t have them when we first met, and what is that, you ask? Whiskers!

They start out slow and as they grow, they grow so slow, then there they are, whiskers!

Some people think whiskers distinct, they think them unique.

If you had whiskers, what kind would they be? A beard might look good, or maybe a goatee.

When first you grow them, they’re called peach fuzz. Or maybe you would prefer more hair – mutton chops.

But now that you have them, whiskers that is – how do you care for them, and trim them all neat?

You cut them, you trim them, they’re so very neat. The fact that you have them is truly a feat.

And now that you have them – a real tour-de-force, why not shave them all off and start over again?

And so ends my thoughts, on whiskers that is. If you had thoughts, on whiskers that is, please add them here!

Charlsia Schall

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