A little post-Mother’s Day story about one of the other mothers I’ve had in my life.
Mrs. Gelena Carter Fisk, my fourth grade teacher, gave me a pair of knives at the bridal shower my childhood church held to celebrate my first wedding.
She didn’t want a penny in exchange. Mom was concerned that I didn’t offer her one anyway, never mind that we were standing in a church fellowship hall, and if there was going to be an Old World superstition that could get into the building after me past my grandfather’s ghost (he had died across the street five years prior), we really would need the Good Lord to step in and break it up.
I wasn’t the target. Mrs. Fisk was side-eyeing my ex when she handed me the box and announced what it contained.
Not long after, he decided to use the paring knife as a screwdriver. The tip slipped and snapped: I don’t know if he got cut when it broke, because he didn’t let me see him do it.
I took the carving knife with me when I left. Even after thirty-two years, it’s still super-sharp, though I haven’t done anything to it but make sure I handwash it instead of throwing it into the dishwasher.
I should say we, because my husband now also uses it routinely. Oh, he did wait until after we had our son, and when he uses it, it’s usually to slice something he’s baked from scratch.
Thanks, Mrs. Fisk. Happy Belated Mother’s Day!
Modus Dementi 
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