When I was 5 years old, I remember laying on the floor under Mama’s ironing board and watching Gun Smoke and Wagon Train while Mama ironed. I don’t remember Mama ever working outside the home, though I believe she did before my brother, Gregg, was born. Though she worked harder than any woman who had TWO full-time jobs. Around the same time I learned to ride a bike without training wheels, Mama started teaching me to spell the names of colors. She would be in the house either ironing or cooking supper as I rode my bike up and down the driveway. Each time I passed the door she would call out the name of a color and I would spell it. And grammar – well, that was drilled into us as we learned to talk. We were taught to speak in grammatically correct sentences and to write with legible penmanship. I remember a teacher asking me WHY a certain form of a verb was correct, I told her “because it sounds right.” That wasn’t the answer for which she was searching. It’s funny the strange things you remember about your childhood.
In 5th grade, I remember coming home in tears because a classmate and neighborhood girl had been making fun of my clothes. She also said something about my father. Mama told me to ignore her that she could dress in fancy, expensive clothes and act like she had money, but her father was nothing more than a college professor and they didn’t make THAT much money.
During the summer, after we had finished our chores and my younger siblings had taken a nap, Mama would take us swimming at Westhills Country Club. In 7th grade, a girl whose family was also a member of the same country club, was constantly making fun of me. One day when I had finally gotten my fill of being teased, I gave back what I was getting. This resulted in her throwing a glass of Coke on my white shorts. I followed her into the ladies’ locker room and proceeded to beat the crap out of her. Mama was standing in the door keeping everyone else out until I had “taken her down a peg or two” (Mama’s words, not mine, though that’s what I was telling Linda as she was getting her well-deserved beating).
During my sophomore year in high school, Mama made two trips to the school in my defense. She walked into the principal’s office and asked to meet with my history teacher, who was also the football coach. I had received an 0 on a homework assignment which I had actually completed (for a change) and had forgotten at home; however, the football players did not turn in that same homework and they received a 100; after all, they had football practice. Mama told the Coach that I had completed the assignment, which she had brought with her, and furthermore, I had piano lessons the day before. If I was going to receive a 0, then “by God, the football players better receive a 0 also.” I believe she went on to threaten to mop the floor with his butt if the situation was not addressed correctly, though I know Mama didn’t put it that nicely. I received credit for the homework assignment.
My Mama’s a natural redhead and lends credence to the old saying that “dynamite comes in small packages.” She taught me so many things by example growing up. She always did what was right, what was ethical and she always stood up for her beliefs. Oh, you didn’t have to ask her about her beliefs, if the subject matter came up, she would let you know in no uncertain terms exactly what she thought. She also stood up for others whom she felt were being treated unjustly. That same football coach, the one she had reprimanded for his unfair treatment of students came under fire for something which he did not do. He and the basketball coach were in jeopardy of losing their jobs. A public hearing was held and Mama (along with other parents) spoke in the coaches defense at the hearing helping to save their jobs. I learned what’s right is right and what’s wrong is wrong and there’s usually not a lot of “gray area” there.
Daddy worked as a salesman during my childhood and was usually out of town from Monday morning until Thursday night. That meant for all intents and purposes, Mama was a “single mother” four out of the seven days every week. No easy task with four of us, spaced four to five years apart. She did laundry, cooked, cleaned, while taking care of four children. She was the original “soccer Mom (though none of us played soccer. After school most days she was either taking one of us to brownies, band practice, piano lessons, and on and on. It was rare that one of us didn’t have some place we had to go after school each day.
We were yelled at, threatened, and actually sometimes (though very seldom) spanked. Mama could come up with some original threats. I remember Mama threatening my sister that she was going to “pinch off her head and flush it down the toilet.” It seems to me that she also chased Kym once with the vacuum cleaner – or maybe I dreamed it, but I can definitely see Mama doing that. She was tough with us – but fair. When I hit puberty, all hell broke loose between Mama and me. I remember Mr. Nick (who later became my father-in-law) telling me that the reason Mama and I fought so much was because we were so much alike. I heatedly denied that allegation stating with venom, “I will NEVER be like my Mama.” Thank the good Lord, I was wrong.
My sisters and I were told growing up that “You can do ANYTHING you put your mind to.” We learned that there were not too many things that men can do that women can’t, Mama showed us that growing up. So far, the only thing I’ve discovered besides not being able to lift as much weight would be that a woman CANNOT pee standing up without wetting herself. We were taught that we not only can HAVE an opinion, we can EXPRESS that opinion – and buddy, we all three do just that. We were taught, by Mama’s example, to be strong, a lesson to which I have to say has probably not only saved my life but also my sanity several times. And honestly, I now strive to be more like my Mama, because she’s one of the two best people on the face of this earth. And I thank God every day that I was fortunate enough to be her daughter. I love you Mama.
SLG
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P.S. This was written not long before Mama passed away. I know she's still with me, because I "channel" her all the time (I open my mouth and her words come out) but I still miss her every single day. What I wouldn't give to be able to pick up the phone to call and ask her one of the million questions that run through my mind every day.
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