A Writer’s Bouquet on Mother’s Day

I know someone who’s completely clueless about Mother’s Day. Just doesn’t get it. Pretty smart about some things, but a dunce when it comes to fundamental obligations as a son to his mother on the second Sunday in May.

What a coincidence; that’s today.

You probably know people like him.

The guy I know practically bridles at the idea of Mother’s Day. He grouses about the idea that everybody in the country, on a designated day, has to honor Mom. He says children should honor their mothers every day of the year. He pretends to be all bent out of shape that the greeting card industry makes a killing off of guilt-tripping children all across America.

Kind of transparent, isn’t he? He’s in his 50s but sometimes exhibits the brainpower of a 10-year-old.

His balkiness has nothing to do with Hallmark or group-think or guilt. It’s strictly a guy thing. It’s the inability to say those three little words that lift up humanity and are music to any mother’s ears: “I love you.”

Technically, it’s not the inability. He can say them; I’ve heard him. He’s even said it to his mother. But they’re words that don’t roll easily off his tongue and, so, there’s a little rebellion that flares up whenever the call comes to deliver them.

Mother’s Day would seem a prime occasion for doing it; still, he hems and haws. He passes up the chance at the schmaltzy card that talks about her giving him life and then lighting it up, although even he concedes she’s done exactly that.

My hunch is that he’s afraid to get into the “I love you, Mother” mode too strongly because, if he let himself go, who knows what measure of bawling and mewling would be unleashed.

Better to be manly, eh?

Mind you, were you to ask him about his mother, the poor fool would go on for hours. Most decent person he’s ever known. Most selfless. Least judgmental. Least demanding. In a cynical, cynical world -- to quote Jerry Maguire -- she is devoid of guile. She couldn’t play an angle if you showed her how. He once thought of that as merely a passive trait; the older he’s gotten, he’s come to prize it as a rare gift.

I may be giving you the impression that he and his mother are somewhat estranged. Couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s no momma’s boy, but even if he were, he wouldn’t be insulted by it.

They talk once a week or so, and she persists in mailing helpful hints about ways to improve his life. Amazingly, those hints always seem to wander back to his cholesterol levels. They see each other a couple of times a year, for decent periods of time, and both are ready to resume their normal lives when the time comes. He sees that as a healthy sign.

He is amazed at the sacrifices she’s made over the years, just in living life, being a wife and mother and staying happy. Her life spans walking barefoot in the dirt as a schoolgirl to wearing Reeboks as a moderately hip grandma, but she’s never spent a day on Easy Street.

From what I know, he harbors only one grudge: that she has one more hole-in-one than he does, although he’s been playing golf for 30 years and she for 10. He vows to get over it.

He knows he should be more forthcoming on Mother’s Day, but you know how some guys are. It’s just another day, he’ll tell you. But ask him to contemplate the day when she’s no longer around, and his eyes mist up faster than a windowpane in winter.

Every Mother’s Day, he says he’ll do better. Don’t hold your breath. Like I said, some guys are clueless.

As for me, I’ve already sent Mom a nice card -- the funny kind. And if I can get through, I’ll probably give her a call. You know, just to talk about stuff.

Because, unlike the other guy, I completely get it.

Dana Parsons can be reached at (714) 966-7821 or at dana.parsons@latimes.com. An archive of his recent columns is at www.latimes.com/parsons.