Those of you who are regular readers of this space may have noticed my absence over the past few weeks. There is a simple explanation for my lack of word-working — I just wasn’t feeling very funny.

Ya’ see folks, my dad left this worldly realm back in March of this year, and my mother went on to join him on Oct. 11 — a fleeting seven months later. That is the sort of thing that can wipe the smile off anyone’s face.

With my 95-year old dad, we watched him take a slow, four-year cruise down life’s last great highway. With my mother, her intentions for her last road trip followed a completely different roadmap. She wanted to drop the top on a red convertible, put her foot on the gas, and drive right on past the off-ramp to the Pearly Gates. As bucket lists go, that is a good one.

Mom was a feisty little lady who took great pride in how much energy she was packing, even after nine decades of life. She enjoyed telling anyone that would listen about how much spit and vinegar she still had. During her funeral, someone remarked that she was like the Energizer Bunny, which summed things up quite accurately. She revved her engine just as long as she could.

Mom and I had a standing Saturday morning date. First, we would hit the bank to deal with whatever business needed dealing with (to mom, online banking was akin to swearing in church — it was WRONG in all ways!).

Once the business portion of the day was completed, I usually aimed the nose of my pretty red truck straight to Walmart so she could stock up on whatever a 90-year-old needed to have a bunch of.

I learned early on to not dawdle in the frozen food aisles, pondering the monetary and nutritional value of a box of 96 corn dogs. Such a lapse in attention allowed her to scurry off, leaving me to scour the whole of Walmart in search of a tiny, gray haired spit-fire — and that could take a while. The capstone of these excursions was a full-on waffle party at Bob Evans — usually accompanied by comments about how her assisted living facility, “Used to have waffles. They don’t have waffles anymore. I don’t know why they don’t have waffles, but I wish they would.” (I heard this EVERY time we had waffles).

Sometimes she would feel a little adventurous and wanted to go for waffles first — oh boy, hellsapoppin when that happened!

Just a few weeks ago, on our last excursion to Walmart, mom was still hell-bent on being the Energizer Bunny. She refused to use one of the conveniently provided motorized shopping carts — insisting that she did not need one of those “go-carts for old people” (her words — not mine).

She argued that she got around in her apartment with just a walker, and pushing a shopping cart was the same thing. By this time, she had been instructed (strongly) to park her butt in a wheel chair and let other folks push her around — which is what I was supposed to be doing that day. However, she was having, “None of that nonsense,” and I knew I was not going to win the argument (or any argument, for that matter).

Ssssssoooooo…off we went — one tiny, frail 90-year-old whirlwind and her dutiful son (resigned to letting her do whatever she wanted to do). Mom made it past the self-serve check-out aisles — “I hate those things,” she would grumble. “If you want me to give you my money, then have a face with a smile standing in front of me.” (I cannot find a flaw in that logic).

She was moving slowly, but stopped short as she tried to continue on to the fruits and produce. The tired look on her face told me she knew she was finally losing the argument. A very helpful Walmart associate scurried off to get her a “go-cart for old people,” and I quickly got her back to (and up into) my truck (that was a trick). As I was old-school calculating the shortest route to the hospital, Mom said to me, “Let’s go have some waffles.”

Guess where we went? Yep. Bob Evans.

Two weeks later, Mom left us. My guess is she is probably enjoying waffles with Dad, right about now.