Michael D. Davis.

The philosopher Bo Burnham once said, “Apathy’s a tragedy, and boredom is a crime.” That not only perfectly sums up this day and age as a whole, but also my Ma’s feelings on the subject.

Where my sister and I grew up with the luxuries of today’s distractions, my Ma did not. Growing up, Ma didn’t have the internet, or a cell phone, or a television with more than three stations. So when it came to boredom, I am sure it was frequent, but yet it was outlawed.

As my Ma has regaled, after every possible mention of the word bored, when she was a kid, if you said the word bored, you were immediately put to work. It is this experience in her youth that I think has instilled in her the unnatural work ethic of a beaten mule, that seems to kick in at every idle moment.

Last Tuesday, in the house, we removed a table from the kitchen and replaced it with a new piece of furniture. We rearranged the entirety of the plastic containers. We found things that we’d forgotten about under the table and sorted them. The items around the table were rearranged, and a shelf was moved. The garbage was taken out, and the dishwasher was run. That evening, my Ma said she thought she didn’t hardly get anything done. Helping her, I was nearly dead by the end of the day.

Ma has always been this way. In my youth, when I’d get out of school for spring break, we’d clean the house. When summer would start, we would organize for a garage sale.

Boredom, I don’t think, ever has a chance to jump on the speeding train of thought that is constantly bouncing off the walls of Ma’s head. If she is not thinking of what she is doing, then she is thinking of what she has to do next. Or what she should be doing. Or what she has already done.

Many of the weird, funny stories I have about and with my Father, from growing up, are from the weekends. That is because my Ma works weekends, and always has, so, I’d be left with the Old One. When I was in elementary school my Ma worked Monday through Friday at the school as a lunch lady in the kitchen, then on Saturday and Sunday, she would go up to the Marshalltown Halfway House and be the cook up there. Then she was back at the school on Monday.

For I don’t know how many years, Ma worked a schedule of twelve days on, two days off, twelve days on. There is little time for boredom in that schedule.

I feel like this revulsion of boredom has rubbed off on me in the smallest sense. I mean I’m never sitting here and thinking I should move this shelf over there and then rearrange the plates, but I’m always doing something. Not to slag off my sister, but I don’t know if I can say the same about her. Frankly, her whole personality and being is painted with benign animosity and resigned indifference. If she is ever awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, I could see her walking on stage and grabbing the medal with a sigh.

Whether it is chores around the house, or admirably working twelve straight days again and again, or who knows what, my Ma never commits the crime of boredom. Which, when it comes down to it, is a pity for me because that means she’ll always be making me do something, move something, clean something.