Tag: Mother

  • Short Story Review: “Wall Cano” by Souvankham Thammavongsa

    (The short story “Wall Cano” by Souvankham Thammavongsa appeared in the November 2nd, 2026 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Illustration by Lewis Chamberlain

    The first school science fair I participated in was six grade, and the kid that won the fair built a working model of a volcano. He had the whole baking soda and vinegar eruption that came overflowing out of the top of his mountain, which was so well done, we all assumed that his father had helped. To this day, when the words “science fair” are spoken, my memory goes back to that volcano, and the intertwined feeling of awe and disappointment. Memory is funny like that, because as an adult looking back, I can see now that I was lazy, and didn’t take the time on the project, and maybe the kid who won actually earned the top prize. Souvankham Thammavongsa’s “Wall Cano” is a story that also has a volcano from a science fair in it, but uses this prop in a very ingenious way, which addresses memory, childhood, and parenting.

    The story is about more than a science fair, or even a volcano. Even though the protagonist is remembering her childhood, its presented not as the past in retrospect, but more like a living memory. Tangents and incidents are remembered, not so much as to move the plot forward, more to decorate and color this world that the story takes place in. Not everything is explained, nor is every motivation understood, because this world is remembered from a ten-year old’s perspective. This creates a feeling of innocence in the story; a touch of curious wonder, but not confusion. The protagonist and the younger brother work to understand their world, as their parents aren’t guiding them. This is not due to neglect, but being that the parents are immigrants, the father refers to himself as a refugee, so they aren’t accustomed to how some thing work. And by proxy, neither do the children.

    I’m leaving out details of the story on purpose. A little bit because I don’t want to spoil it, but also because what is revealed, and how it is revealed, is an important part of this narrative. What seems random in fact is building the protagonist’s budding cognoscente reality. She might not understand how these things are connected, but she knows they are connected, yet we can see that they are connected. I loved that Thammavongsa trusted us, the reader, that we’d put it all together for the narrative to work, but still left it vague enough so there was a feeling of mystery.

    The final section of the story wraps everything up very well; asking how memories stay with us, continue to live in our consciousness, and influence us. And also, leading us to wonder how things would have been different if there was just the slightest bit of change, or even guidance.

  • ODDS and ENDS: I Hate Fractions, Breakfast Memories, and I Have a Problem…

    ODDS and ENDS: I Hate Fractions, Breakfast Memories, and I Have a Problem…

    (Three is a magic number…)

    Fractions suck. They have sucked since I was first introduced to them back in 5th grade, and to this day, they are still sucking away. I know that their suckage has continued because my daughter came home with math homework that was nothing but stupid word problem fraction questions. “It takes 1 3/4 cups of flour to make a batch of cookies. Dave wants to make 4 1/8 batches of cookies. If Dave has 8 2/3 cups of flour, how much flour will he have left over after he bakes his cookies?” Honestly, who gives a shit. Why aren’t they teaching kids to convert the fractions to decimals, because the world runs on decimals. Lucky for the kid, she didn’t inherit her father’s useless mathematical mind, and at least can handle it better that I did.

    This morning, as I was waking up the kid, and getting breakfast started, a memory shock-shot into my head. I returned to being four or five years old, sitting at the kitchen table eating Franken Berry cereal, watching my mother in her old yellow robe whisk and glide around the kitchen make school lunches for my brothers. There was a radio on top of the refrigerator that was playing “Fun, Fun, Fun.” I was trying to follow the lyric, but was confused. “What’s a T-bird?” I asked my mom. “It’s a car,” she said. “Why does the dad take it away?” “She got in trouble.” This was all confusing to me.

    I’m addicted to my phone, and it’s becoming a problem. Sure, a little of it has to do with doom scrolling because of all the news of late. Yet, I know that I am spending too much time on my phone. I lost a half hour just now, looking a videos of people signing about how awful musical theatre is. Like, I need to wrap up my writing this morning, and get to my chores… but I had to see if there were any new ICE videos. Now I feel like I am behind, and the day is slipping away. I have to put it down. I have to stop. I have to do better and more constructive things with my time. Like come up with a good button to end this piece…

  • Short Story Review: “Mother of Men” by Lauren Groff

    (The short story “Mother of Men” by Lauren Groff appeared in the November 10th, 2025 issue of The New Yorker.)

    Photograph by Bryan Schutmaat

    “Mother of Men” by Lauren Groff is a good story, except for one thing. And I’ll get to that.

    But before I get to that, this story made me think about the world my mother lived in. She was married with three sons, and though she told us she loved it, she did have to deal with three stinky boys, who became men, and all the baggage that came with it. Later in life, when me and my brothers got married and had our own families, did it start to dawn on us how much of her life was confined with masculine demands. In that context, much of what is expressed in this story by the narrator rang true to me; that men are always in her house, how her boys were now men, and the need for her home to be a safe place.

    When the stalker is added to the story, and thus kicking off the plot, the menace that this man places on the narrator, is not only an immediate threat to her, but also to her home, and these men in her life. And this stalker is truly a threat, because he does have a gun. This weapon also functions as a reminder that violence and men are never too far apart from each other. Her husband has a baseball bat, her sons offer their own cocky protection to their mother, and the narrator even tries to enlist the workers from her home renovation for additional security. All of this raised interesting questions of violence and safety, of masculine and feminine roles, how a mother goes from protector of her sons, to needing protection from them. Even the title of story, which is also the title Catholics use in reference to Mary mother of Jesus, wasn’t lost on me, and added another layer to the piece. Great stuff.

    And then the climax happened. The stalker enters the home at night, the narrator is unable to take action, so her son asks the stalker to leave, which the stalker does. And it felt completely incongruent to everything that had come before in the story. This climax broke Chekhov’s Gun Rule, which means if you introduce a gun in the story, you have to fire it at the end. There was an expectation of violence, threat, even menace in this story, and to not deliver a resolution to that expectation left the ending of the story feeling hollow. And I did spend time thinking about this climax and the choices that were made, but I kept coming back to the same conclusion – the gun needed to be fired.

  • Apple Pickin’

    This past weekend, we took part in our annual tradition of going apple picking! I dusted off my red and black flannel shirt because there was a chill in the air, and I had a need to the great taste of crisp ripe apples!

    We started apple picking when the kid was two, and my folks came up to visit us in October 2017. My parents were here to see us, especially to see their granddaughter, and my Ma wanted to experience a New England Autumn. My wife was the one who came up with the idea of apple picking, and it was great Fall activity. It was cool out, slight mist in the air, leaves were changing, and it was something that my parents had never experienced before. Me as well.

    After that, on the first of second weekend in October, we head up into the Hudson Valley for an orchard to spend the morning weaving between trees, picking away.

    This year, I had been looking forward to this more than anything. Part of it is that Autumn has been late in arriving up here. Seems like two weeks ago, we still had the air conditioners on dealing with several days of 80 degrees. But Fall did arrive, and like magic the leaves started changing, temps cooled, and we even got a little rain. Driving up out of the City, it was rejuvenating to feel that the season had started changing. For me, Summer is oppressive while Autumn is liberating.

    This year, as the season was changing, there were other changes too. The apple picking was fine, we all had a good time. But as I looked around the orchard at all of the other families out there with their little kids, I noticed that my daughter was one of the older children out there. I was sort of amazed that there were no teenagers; Like almost none. And the few that were there looked like they wanted to die. I know that apple picking is a cheesy cliche thing to do in Fall, and when I looked over at my kid, who was having a good time, it was apparent that I have a limited time left to do this stuff with her.

    Things will change, as they always do. It will be sad when the day comes and she doesn’t want to do this stuff anymore, but it’s also normal for her to get older and not want to do the old things anymore. Maybe she’ll prove me wrong. I know that she’ll still want to apple pies that her mother makes after these outings. That part won’t change.

  • Mom and Dad’s Wedding Anniversary

    Today would have been my parent’s 58th Wedding Anniversary. My Ma passed away five years ago, and as we close in on October, it will soon be six years. Normally, I rarely remembered my parents anniversary as it felt a little weird to me to celebrate their anniversary, but at the same time, I should celebrate their anniversary because without it, I wouldn’t be here. Point being that it was not foremost on my mind, and my Ma usually reminded me when it was coming up.

    Their 50th Wedding Anniversary was a big deal, for more than the obvious reasons. Me and my brothers, wives included, threw a big dinner for them. Friends and relatives came in to help celebrate, and me and my little family snuck in town, and surprised my parents. It was great time; great food, great drinks, great stories. It was great, and a wonderful celebration of two very wonderful people who were filled with love, and gave some much love back to the world.

    I had forgotten today was their anniversary. Just about two hours ago, when I looked at the calendar on my computer, did I see the reminder.

    I talked to my Dad yesterday, we had a great conversation, but it didn’t come up. I’m not prone to remember these things, and I wouldn’t expect my father to say anything.

    He still has his wedding ring on. When we were home last, I made a point to check to see if he still had it. Sure did. And why would he take it off.

    There are so many days that trigger memories of my mother. Today is one of them, clearly. But a couple of days ago, it was my eighteenth anniversary of moving from Texas to New York, and that is a date that I am very proud of. And as I thought about my move, I remembered my Ma hugging me and crying as I left for the airport. And at my niece’s wedding this Summer, couldn’t help but wonder how Ma would have reacted to seeing her granddaughter getting married.

    My family doesn’t talk too much about missing Ma. It’s very much understood that we all miss her, and that won’t ever go away. Where we are now is telling funny stories and fond memories when we all get together. Don’t get me wrong, we are all still working through our grief, as that will be a long process. But, talking about her isn’t painful anymore.