[Note: I wrote this on Monday and then held off on posting it because it looked like Rita was going to keep mom from her rescue mission. Now it looks like that trip is going to happen, come Hell or... well... high water.]
I know a woman of strength and intelligence and beauty. She is simultaneously the conduit of the Love of Heaven and, without a doubt, the Fury of Hell. She’s mom.
Her southern nature manifests itself through one part charm and one part temper.
Charm: She can talk to anyone. Her powers of compassion, insight, sincere empathy (not to mention “organization”) border on superhuman. Her peach cobbler should have its own constitution. She has never embarrassed me in front of my friends. Her penmanship is pristine.
Temper: she’s passionate about her causes. Pity the poor f*cker who gets between her and one of her kids, or any kid, for that matter. Fire shoots from her eyes. She once took down the DMV in three phone calls, one of which was to the mayor’s office. I bet she could beat up a bear.
So where does that put me? I’m a momma’s boy. Through and through. Go ahead and insult her and you’ll find out if that passionate temper is as hereditary as the ability to talk to anyone. Long ago, my role as “young’n” translated from ankle-biter, through mother’s-day-poem-provider, though grocery-bag-carrier, through additional-driver, and so on to the point where I voluntarily am now the concerned-twenty-something. Yeah, I know there’s nothing that I can do for her that thirty other people within her arm’s reach can’t do (thugs, muggers, and ne’er-do-wells aren’t very prevalent in East Aurora, anyway, except those in the family), and yet I appreciate my nearly-neighbor status. Just in case.
When this woman of charm and temper told me she was headed for the Gulf Coast this Friday to set things straight, I bristled. I hated it. I hate it still. She’ll be too far, and too out of my reach. It’s too much of a sacrifice. I’ve already made my donation to the Katrina relief effort at Wegmans, so why do I have to give up my mom?
But, my God, if anyone can help, it’s her. Can’t you see her, wearing her new boots and a pair of rubber gloves, a mop in hand like the Hammer of Thor, and fire shooting from her eyes? The South with rise again, and if they’re lucky, they’ll learn a thing or two about peach cobbler.
Hang tight, New Orleans. Help is on the way. I’m sending my mom.
1 year ago