My mother was a smart, shy Christian woman. Never cussed, OK once or twice when my mischief drove her up a wall. But near a Saint as I’ve ever known.
Not funny necessarily. Life was a more serious endeavor for her, more of tenderness, and nourishing and purposeful living than say a life time spent spinning yarns.
The only time I remember her making funny, was when Donald Lawrence, my old buddy – a blacksmith after he retired from the US Army – brought by the house some horse meat he had harvested from a through bred horse he had to put down.
Actually he brought cuts from several well fed sport horses he had euthanized when they broke their legs.
The meat had a distinctive taste but mixed with beef, was hardly noticeable.
Unless you were a girl like my sister Joan.
Who wanted no part of half horse meat hamburgers. Mother pleaded and begged and Joan finally said, “OK, OK, I’ll eat one of those terrible things, if you promise not to tell any of my friends.”
“One?” Mother said, “One? You’ll eat one hamburger?… Joan I got a whole horse in the refrigerator.”