In the year 2000, I learn that Uncle Pippi is going to be recognized by President Clinton at the 50th Anniversary of the Korean War.

“Jeanne, guess what? You’ll never guess what LaLa told me today! The government is picking Pippi up by helicopter, and flying him to Washington, D.C.! Can you imagine? My own brother! You know, he was a hero in the Korean War,” said Mom.

We’re in my kitchen. The room is decorated in baby highchair décor, accented with an over-flowing laundry basket, a wire basket stiffly holding overdue bills, dishes precariously stacked in a mountain-shape in the dish drainer, remnants of a fried egg glued to a breakfast frying pan, dog toys and little girl toys underfoot.

Mom is here to help, as she has been, consistently, for the past eight years, helping me love my children.

“What? What are you talking about?” I think that she doesn’t have the story straight, because, in the forty-one years of my life, I’ve never heard an inkling that Uncle Pippi is a war hero. It’s a fine line with Mom, and always has been. She’s either giving it to me straight, or exaggerating her way, manipulating my thoughts to get me to do something for her. I am glad that I recognize this at this point in my life. In this way, I can love her.

“True-blue,” said Mom.