My mother is a hooker

My Mother is a Hooker

It’s not the sort of hobby that one brags of to the neighbors.
I seldom mention it, although she’s quite proud of her labors.
And though our family all roll our eyes up at the topic
It’s true we like the end results, so maybe we’re myopic.

The grandkids all enjoy her gifts and don’t care how she made them.
They wouldn’t grumble anyway, because we have forbade them.
Her heartfelt efforts are appreciated, though we shudder;
When we all get together, we still worry what she’ll utter.

I shake my head as I think back on times that we have gathered,
Both friends and kin around the dinner table, though I’d rathered
That we had stayed further apart when she talks of her passion.
I can but groan and wish that show and tell were not in fashion.

My dad just sits and grins when she proclaims that she’s a hooker.
Our guests all sit there open mouthed and hope that they mistook her.
You’d think that dad would have some shame and not be so contrarian
He is, you know, a minister (retired), Presbyterian.

But mom must have her fun and shock the guests who come to listen.
She lets them stew and on this chew and gladly her eyes glisten.
When finally she lets them in upon the joke she’s making
She shows them all the rugs she’s hooked, but still their heads are shaking.

I hear that there are parents in the world who have decorum
But when I tell my mom and dad, they say that that would bore’em.
And though I hope some day her joke will gently fade behind us,
I still expect each holiday this hooking joke will find us.


All events and people in this poem are real and do indeed enjoy this humor (even me). Below is a sample of a rug hooked by my mom. She and her hooking circle love to describe themselves (all 70+ years old) as "hookers".