Goin' Down to Mama's

Mama Says: "It Slumped a Little to the Side"

My mother used to ask Aunt Nannie Lee to make these doll cakes for me on my birthday. As I got older, Mama started making my cakes herself, and she knew chocolate was my favorite. We celebrated my "49th and holding" a little early—after church this past Sunday. And before she brought my cake out, Mama said, "Now it slumped a little to the side." She wasn't lying. That cake was a chocolate mudslide. But if I may quote Elvis, and I think I may . . . that's alright, Mama. I loved it!

Mama Says: "We're Not the Only Ones"

Overheard on a mother-daughter beach trip:

Mama (Scanning the Coastline): You know, we're not the only ones that have no business in a two-piece bath suit. When I get home, I'm going on a diet.

Me: Me, too. Hey, you feel like shrimp and oysters for supper, or are should we mix it up and hit a steak house?

Mama Says: "Not for Mixed Company"

On one of our vacations, Dave and I were strolling through a downtown restaurant district when I zeroed in on the conversation coming from a sidewalk table. (You may call it eavesdropping. I call it "zeroing in.") One senior gentleman was LOUDLY telling another about a recent date. Was he recalling the color of her eyes, the music of her laughter? Why, no. What I heard was detailed commentary worthy of ESPN. It was a study in Too Much Information. Had my mother been there, she would have seared the man with her famous Sidelong Glance of Shame, which she reserves for those whose behavior she considers so very appalling that they are not even worthy of direct eye contact. And she would have said, loudly enough for the offender and the surrounding populace to hear, "SOME topics of conversation are NOT for mixed company." Aunt Joyce would've just smacked the guy upside the head with her Bible. And he would've spent the rest of his natural life with the words "King James Red-Letter Edition" imprinted on his forehead.

Mama Says: "Have you prayed about it?"

A couple of days ago, I was going through the mail and opened a card from a friend who had written, simply, "I prayed for you today." And my first thought was, "How did she know?" How did she know I especially need it right now? Whenever I call my mother about a problem or a worry, her first response is always, "Have you prayed about it?" There's a comfort in prayer, especially the familiar kind, like prayers among your family or your church family. When I was growing up, there was an older usher in our church who used to close all his prayers with "and when we reach the end of life's journey . . ." There was something very calming about that—the idea that we don't die but merely reach the end of a long journey. My Uncle Clyde used to begin all his prayers with "Our eternal heavenly Father," which embraces God's power and love all at the same time. And whenever he prayed for a hospitalized church member, he would give the Lord their room number, as in, "We ask You to bless Brother Jones, room 403 at University Hospital." I always admired Uncle Clyde for being so sure of God's presence, so certain that his prayer was being heard, that he wanted to make sure the requested blessing went straight to the appropriate hospital room. Praying is such an easy thing to do—and such an easy thing to forget to do. And when I think about people like Uncle Clyde, I'm reminded that maybe instead of looking for answers or wishing I had them, I should just . . . ask for them. 

Mama Says: "No Cast Iron in the Dishwasher"

Frying chicken one day, my mother reminded me never, ever to put cast iron in the dishwasher. "Some people don't even wash theirs, but I like a little hot soapy water on mine," she said. "Then I spray it with a little Pam—not too much—and wipe it out with a paper towel."  My uncle, sipping his coffee and listening quietly from a corner in the kitchen, offered this summary of cast iron care: "The nastier it is, the better it cooks."

Mama Says: "You Better Stick With Blue Cross"

Now that Dave and I are both enjoying adventures in self-employment, we've experienced the joy of shopping for health insurance. Mama's opinion: "You better stick with Blue Cross." And so I called up the Helpful Blue Cross Person (henceforth identified as HBCP), and applied.

Now, anytime I get quizzed by medical-ish personnel, I get nervous. When I had knee surgery at St. Vincent's—the first and only surgery I've ever had in my life (knock on wood)—I was answering all the questions for my paperwork when they asked me if I had a living will. "Why?!" I demanded in a panic. "You think I'm gonna need one?! What are you people not telling me?!!" They assured me this was a routine question. I was equally panicky with the HBCP (again, that's Helpful Blue Cross Person):

Mama Says: "Jane uses Jergens."

Mama glanced from her winter-white legs to mine on that first warm-enough-for-shorts day of late spring. "Reckon we ought to try some of that Jergen's tanning lotion? Jane says she uses Jergens." Jane is our dear friend and church organist. If you want to know the truth about a situation, ask Jane. We felt we could trust her not to mess around with any good-for-nothing tanning potion that didn't work. Back in the day, we got our suntans via the actual sun. My cousin Kathy and I used to drive our Grandme INSANE by putting on our bathing suits, dousing ourselves in oil, and "laying out" in the back yard.  "When I was a girl," Grandme would rant, "women PROTECTED their skin! Why, you wouldn't DREAM of going out in the sun without your arms covered up and a hat to shade your face. You are going to KILL YOURSELF in that sun!" Of course, we didn't listen.

When I went to college, it got even worse. We actually tanned using baby oil, because it has an SPF of hellfire and will fry you faster, which is important when you're trying to get bronzed in that three-hour break between history and biology.

Mama Says: "Don't fuss."

Mama: "I've figured out my menu for Sunday lunch—we're having meatloaf.

Me: "Sounds good."

Mama: "Now I've made a salad, and I don't want you to fuss about it."

Me: "Why would I fuss about a salad?"

Mama: "We're having it for dessert, and I just don't want you to fuss about it."

Me: "A salad for dessert? [Pause. Think it over. Figure out the one word she's leaving out.] Oh. You mean a congealed salad."

Mama: "Yes, and I now how you are, but this one is good."

Me: "You always say that. What's it got in it, not that it matters."

Mama: "Don't be like that. Listen. The crust is crushed pretzels and butter and you press that down in your dish and bake it a few minutes. Then after it cools, you make a layer of cream cheese and Cool Whip and a tat of butter."

Me: "So where's the Jell-O?"

Mama: "On top. With the strawberries. And I'm telling you, it's good—and it's low-fat, so I don't wanna hear any fussing."

Me: "Yes, ma'am."

[A review or the aforementioned "good" congealed salad will be forthcoming.]

Mama Says: "Kleenex in the fitting room."

Not long ago, Mama and I were at Macy's, on the hunt for Easter attire, when we happened to pass the swimsuit section. Both of us visibly shuddered and turned our heads away, as if we dare not look upon this evil. (That's the two of us, poolside, back when we both had fewer body-image issues.) When you're in your 20s, shopping for a swimsuit—or bathin' suit, as we say in the South—means deciding how many of those cute little numbers you can afford. When you're anywhere north of 40, it means weeping and wailing and cries of "When did this happen to me???!!!" (Also, you only cut through Victoria's Secret because it offers a shortcut between the parking lot and the food court, but that's another story.) So here's an idea whose time has come, Mr. Macy: Stock those fitting rooms with boxes of Kleenex so we won't have to rifle through our purses when the sobbing begins. Also, complimentary copies of I'm OK, You're OK would be nice, and maybe a few life-affirming issues of Oprah's magazine. But on the bright side, ladies, some of us are a tad wider than we were at 20, but we're a tad wiser, too. Plus, I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that the last space shuttle conducted experiments proving that a three-way mirror and fluorescent lighting add 30 pounds. (OK, so I made that up. Work with me.)

Mama Says: "Well, isn't that different?"

"Different" is Mama's euphemism for "heinous." Let's say, for example, we're in an antique store and I point out a shabby (but in a good way) kitchen table I'm thinking of buying. The conversation will go something like this:

Me: "So what do you think?"

Mama: "Well . . . it's different."

Me: "You like it?"

Mama: "It sure is different—I'll give you that."

Me: "Don't you think it'll look good in my kitchen?"

Mama: "Well . . . it'll be different."

Loose translation: "That's the tackiest thing I've ever seen in my life, and I wouldn't make a peanut butter sandwich on it."