All her life, my mother had a friend by the name of Zena R. One day after she had married, she was down in the basement doing laundry, when she heard my Dad calling her from the top of the stairs at the other end of the house.
"Mary! Mary!" he yelled.
"Mary! Mary!" he yelled.
"What is it?" she returned.
"Zena R's dead!"
Poor old mother was down in the basement by herself, dealing with the news of her lifelong friend's death, being told by a man, who, as a soldier, saw his friends get blown up in front of him. The difference between the two often showed.
"You know," she said later. "You could have been a little kinder to me, and come down and told me the news in person."
"What for?" he replied, "She wouldn't be any less dead."
"Zena R's dead!"
Poor old mother was down in the basement by herself, dealing with the news of her lifelong friend's death, being told by a man, who, as a soldier, saw his friends get blown up in front of him. The difference between the two often showed.
"You know," she said later. "You could have been a little kinder to me, and come down and told me the news in person."
"What for?" he replied, "She wouldn't be any less dead."
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