Anyone who knows my mother can testify that she’s one part Don’t-Mess-With-Me!, two parts Want-To-Cuddle?, a lot of Whoa-Fella! and a bit Pick-That-Up! She’s a lover of all things equine and is known for her phat whip.
(Mama, that’s “cool car”.)
Bess, her first-born.
She’s affectionately know as Mama/Mawm/Nana/Patty Lou/Tricia and has always been the prettiest woman in my world:
Duh. Where’d you think I got my looks from?
Mama grew up in Ohio and has lived in both North Carolina and Pennsylvania. She’s a bonafide Southern Yankee!
She’s spent the first half of her life making other people happy.
My hope for her is that she spends the second half making herself happy.
Don’t Mess With Me!
I don’t remember the year or how old I was (preteeny, I think), but it wasn’t one of those days when she put the fear of God in me.
God put the fear of Mama in some old bastard who was riding thisclose to the back of her car.
I’d just like to point out that I got my road rage honest.
He followed us for a couple minutes. Thisclose. A couple minutes more. Thscls. She gave him ample warning and ample time.
He didn’t heed.
You know that “Mama look”? Yeah, that one. Well, multiply that by 10, add steam coming from the ears and a nice red glaze around the neck and you’ve got Mama as she slams on brakes, exits the car and fearlessly goes face to headlights with Drunk Old Bastard in his three-tone ’82 pickup.
His brakes worked good, too.
So did his gearshift.
I think he drunk-drove better in reverse than he did forward.
I peed in my pants a little that day. I sure was proud of her, though. I didn’t know whether to shut up and sit still or high-five her, slap her butt and yell, “Thata Girl!”
Then there’s the frying pan episode.
Seriously, episode. Network television should’ve been on the ball years ago, because this was good reality t.v.
Again, I can’t remember when or how it eminated because I learned early on to just stand back and watch, but I remember her cooking, the R-rated script, the steamy ears and bright red neck, and, tada!, a flying frying pan.
Out the front door, into the cold Pennsylvania snow.
And that’s where it stayed. It was forgotten, history, caput.
‘Til the snow melted.
This gave Mama plenty of time to cool off.
By the time Spring rolled around, she greeted the exposed frying pan with a, “Oh, there you are, you f&$#!@ thing! Have a nice winter? Oh, ours was lovely, thank you! Christmas was beautiful! The snow was dazzling! Too bad you missed it! So glad to see Spring! Now move, you’re blocking my hibiscus….”
Want To Cuddle?
Mama’s a lover, not a fighter. Don’t get me wrong – the Mama Bear will come out if you push for it. I mean, really push for it. Which was a talent I seemed to master as an adolescent. Of course, she loved me regardless. Really loved me. Still does.
Can’t say I blame her…….
She doesn’t know a stranger and radiates a welcoming feeling. She has friends of all shapes, sizes, colors, species. She has endearing qualities that I see even in my children. Proof that disposition is genetic. Kisses and hugs are never sold out and good conversation can only be made better with a nice, hot cup of coffee. Or five.
And some wine. The bottle, please. Or three.
I just love the crap outta her.
My mom’s a hottie.
Just ask the 130 year old man that lives up the road.
I gotta give him props for trying.
The first time.
His last 22 attempts got a little ridiculous, though.
I know she’s hot, Mr. Won’t Shut Up, but she’s taken! And you’re old! Really old!
He finally gave up. I think it was after her threat to punch him square between the eyes, but he gave up.
Hot Mama is no longer taken. So yes, Mr. Fine Southern Cowboy, she will go out with you!
Take her somewhere nice and twirl her on the dance floor. Extra kudos if you sweep her off her feet and move her to North Carolina!
Love, Daughter Bear.
Pick That Up!
So Mama’s a little OCD. Not about everything, just about tidiness.
It. Goes. There. That’s. Where. It. Goes. Don’t. Leave. It. Anywhere. Else.
Mama is a lot Country and a little bit Rock-N-Roll. She’s a mother first and a friend (close) second. She’s never harsh, always understanding and sometimes a bit silly. She’s endured much hardship in her life, but always conquered it. She’s resilient. Tough. And sensitive. She’s my mom but she’s somebody’s daughter, too. She was once a little girl, braided pigtails and big brown eyes. She’s a sister, an aunt, a niece, a cousin and a friend.
And a Nana.
Her second most important job in the world.
My mom is a neverending song in my heart of comfort, happiness, and being. I may sometimes forget the words but I always remember the tune. ~Graycie Harmon
A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine desert us; when trouble thickens around us, still she will cling to us, and endeavor by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts. ~Washington Irving
Grown don’t mean nothing to a mother. A child is a child. They get bigger, older, but grown? What’s that suppose to mean? In my heart it don’t mean a thing. ~Toni Morrison, Beloved, 1987
A father may turn his back on his child, brothers and sisters may become inveterate enemies, husbands may desert their wives, wives their husbands. But a mother’s love endures through all. ~Washington Irving
There’s nothing like a mama-hug. ~Adabella Radici
All that I am or ever hope to be, I owe to my Mother. ~Abraham Lincoln
I love you, Mawm.