When one posts herein, entrusting their precious words, thoughts, and realities to Mom’s motherly bosom, there is neither gentle spring nor gentle brooklet, nay, not even a gentle rain from heaven upon the place, of whatever Reality is or is not. Mom accepts the constructs of her children, be they crayon drawings or academic tomes of many volumes and great weight, and affixes them with magnets graced with naughty pictures to the door of the fridge (which has crashed through the floor from the weight).