Erma Bombeck published more than 4,000 syndicated columns from 1965 until she died in 1996. I don’t know how she did it.
My wellspring of creativity has run dry.
I’ve tried every trick in the book — writing with my left hand, taking a walk, and eating Mexican food. (The last one was my idea.) So far all I have to show for my efforts are scribbles only a pharmacist could love, a blister on my big toe, and an insatiable craving for Beano.
Maybe my writer’s block is due to the pressure to tickle a funny bone at a time when tears are tickling my mascara.
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Oh, it’s nothing serious in the big scheme of things. Just a mother untying her apron strings — again.
Our daughter, Traci, has moved from Washington state. She’s tied to her military husband more than to me.
That’s a good thing.
And over her lifetime there have been a lot of good things:
Her birth. I cried.
Her first step. I cried.
Starting kindergarten. I cried.
High school graduation. I cried.
Leaving home and leaving us with her huge dog. My husband cried about the dog food bill.
But tears didn’t end there.
Traci married the perfect guy. I wept with joy.
Even so, Eddie — or I should say the U.S. Army — frequently moves our daughter and the grandkids from one end of the country to the other.
This week, they left for California.
I’ve been crying again.
So the other day, I went to my bookshelf to retrieve an old favorite—one that often makes me smile. It’s a collection of Erma Bombeck’s best columns; the book is Forever Erma.
Her many columns usually elicit chuckles. But every so often, even Erma cried, too.