Tomorrow is my mom’s birthday.
I did not grow up in the South. My mom did, and my dad did, but my brother and I grew up as Army brats and spent a significant portion of our early years in Europe. Even though my parents grew up in the South they, oddly, did not call their mom’s Mama. And neither did we. When I was 8 years old and living in Ft. Leavenworth, KS, I heard some friend of mine call her mom Mama. I considered it in my head. Hmmm. I tried it out loud. Sounds a little kooky to me. I tried it on my Mom. “Mama?” I say. She turns her head and looks at me weird. It sounds weird. I abandon it immediately. Not for me I decide. Mom it is, and Mom it always will be. As a teenager another friend of mine, living in Texas at this point, called her mom Mommy. Consistently. Not just when she wanted something. I hadn’t called my mom Mommy since I was about four. I’m guessing, because honestly I don’t recall ever calling her Mommy.
Another thing I learned when I was 8 years old is that most people do not “warsh” themselves or their dishes. They wash them. I did decide right then and there that from that point on I was a “washer” not a “warsher” type person. Sorry Mom but apparently I had to make my own way with that one.
My mom is the original possessor of the Witch Face. The Look. The You Better Stop Right Now or You’re Going to Get it expression. I learned from the best, although my own Witch Face is generally reserved for when I am exceptionally annoyed by something, not necessarily a ‘you’re going to get it” look. My mom “clicks” her tongue when she’s annoyed. Apparently she’s not the only mom to do this, as evidenced once by a young checkout boy at the grocery store who looked terrified when my Mom inadvertently did this while waiting to pay for her groceries. “I’m so sorry for your wait ma’am, I’ll get this stuff bagged up right away.” Poor kid. I feel his pain. I have caught myself many times unconsciously mimicing my mom’s “click.” It really works. But you have to be a master at it. You have to mean it without even realizing you are doing it. The click is not something to be taken lightly. You hear it, you better snap to attention because the Witch Face or the Look is coming up next. It’s mom’s ever so gentle way of saying “you are really pissing me off right now.”
Memories of my mom in the past hit me every day. My favorites include the Click for sure – but also this:
Coming in the kitchen from work, from running errands, etc – Mom grabs the ancient plastic yellow pitcher and slams some Lipton Iced Tea powder into it (who needs measurements?!) and then running the tap at full force she fills up the pitcher and slams the whole thing back onto the counter, grabs a glass, fills it with ice and pours the tea and gulps it down. I used to watch her do this whole ritual with a sense of awe and appreciation that my head wasn’t that yellow pitcher. I still miss that yellow pitcher. Now you can buy ready made tea in jugs. Just isn’t the same.
My mom used to keep her keys in her pocket whenever we were out shopping. She would jingle them continuously and I would follow that noise. Never worried about getting lost because I could just stop and listen and I would find her. There was a brown leather strap on that key chain. Something that jingled. I don’t remember what it was but it sure was a comfort in my younger years.
My mom had a blue cotton sweater that she kept in the Copperas Cove Library for when she was working. I’d go and stay at the library til it closed at 9 pm on Thursdays. That was the only night she worked late. She’d pick me up at school and take me back there. I learned the dewey decimel system by the time I was 12. Occasionally I’d get to go behind the counters and help out. There was a hole in the pocket of that blue sweater. M&M’s would sneak their way out and I’d pick them up and pop them into my mouth. I would get to go in the kitchen of the library to eat my dinner. I felt tremendously special. Those were some of the best times – that library.
From my Mom I learned the power of books, and words. The ability to drift away in a story. The sheer admiration of others who could write. The Pulitzer Prize. The Caldecott Award. My mom and I both prefer true stories – she always loved adventure stories and blood and guts – like the Jon Benet Ramsey story, or Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. I love biographies. People who did amazing things with their lives. Historical accounts of wars and civil liberties and strong personalities that never gave up. Both of us have always preferred books to movies, to conversation, to just about anything. She used to spend her time at the kitchen table reading until late after I’d gone to bed. I can still picture her there.
My mom is an amazing, wonderful person. I am so grateful that I was able to give her, after all these years, her amazing and wonderful granddaughter. One of my greatest joys in life is watching their eyes light up when they see each other. They were absolutely meant to be Granny and GrandBaby. I was meant to be the intermediary between them.
Happy Birthday Mom. I love you more than I could ever say.
