Mothers come in all flavors

God had a wonderful plan when he made everybody’s mother the best in the world. But in a two-week span I was reminded that not all mothers interpret the game plan the same way. On July 27 Edna Biggers, who I had come to think of as family, passed away. On Aug. 12, my mother, Myrtle Elizabeth Walburn, turned 100.

The one thing they had in common was an enormous capacity for love, expressed so differently as to be worth noting through various examples. Edna was fond of food, but food was not her friend. The slightest caloric indulgence came with a heavy tax physically. My mother’s diet was primarily lard, white bread, caffeine, and sugar, topped off afterwards with a dip of Bruton snuff. Her weight has hardly varied more than a pound or two. She can, as the expression goes, still eat the paint off the wall and never burp.

I was surprised and thrilled that my mother seemed to really enjoy the hurrah of her century-honoring birthday party because she wasn’t favorably disposed toward parties when I was growing up. She was something of a loner and was selective of my friends she warmed up to. Edna Biggers’ home on Berry College campus was a rollicking way station for friends of Brad, Reed and Branham.

Illustration by Lee Field, RN-T

LField@RN-T.com

Mama and Edna differed in the ways they expressed displeasure. When Edna was miffed by any aspect of restaurant or nursing home service, she had almost a foreign diplomat’s soft but effective way of demonstrating her annoyance. For example, in one of her nursing home stays she invited the entire kitchen staff to her room and ever so politely gave a seminar on how to properly prepare vegetables in the future. Mama, on the other hand, was very direct. When a grocery clerk told the 90 year-old shopper her cart came to about $10 more than what she had already calculated in her head, she said, “Like hell, you say.”

Both Edna and Mama loved dogs. Well, except Edna didn’t care much for Bevo. He was allowed house privileges because Dan Biggers loved Bevo and Edna loved Dan. Bevo had the nervous system of a Tazmanian devil and a bark that made skin crawl. When Dan realized he might be approaching the end of his days he said to Edna, “If I go first, will you take care of Bevo?” Edna, in a slight wavering of diplomacy said, “Dan, Bevo will be in somebody else’s home before the sun sets.” My Mama adored Edna because she was responsible for bringing her Coco, who would have been ushered a ticket to dog heaven had not Edna rescued him. His real name wasn’t Coco Dammit, but it might as well have been because that was usually the way Mama referred to the ear-splitting yapper with the hair-trigger bladder. But Mama loved Coco like Dan loved Bevo. Edna and Mama had different ways of reacting to crises. Like the time Dan decided he had had enough of whoever was regularly syphoning gas from his car at night. Determined to bring an end to the thievery, Dan staked out a surveillance bush and faced off the culprit. The confrontation roused Edna from her bed and she heard Dan demand, using his Charlton Heston voice, “Edna, Get Me My Gun!” Edna replied, “Oh, Dan, you know you don’t have a gun.”

Before Mama moved to Rome, one night a neighborhood lady managed to reach her on the telephone. She was hysterical, screaming that a man was trying to break into her apartment. Mama, who was about 69 at the time, took the hinges off her front screen door as she dashed out and across the street. Barefoot, she chased the intruder up a bank, across railroad tracks, and through a briar patch. When police caught up with him they said he was running like the hounds of hell were after him.

Edna would have invited him in, fed him, and taught him to play pinochle on behalf of the social rehabilitation wing of West Rome United Methodist’s Crisis Ministry.

My wife and I make a good team because we share few of the same weaknesses.

Her strengths are my weaknesses, and vice versa.

Actually, upon closer inspection, there’s really no “vice versa” to it. We make a good team because she has all the strengths in our relationship, while I seem to dominate the weakness category (I’m No. 1!) — with one notable exception.

One thing I take great pride in is my sense of direction. I often recount the story of how I visited my cousin’s house in Arkansas five years after my first visit and navigated the entire route flawlessly on memory alone, without the assistance of a map or verbal directives from a vagrant on the street corner.

My wife doesn’t share my navigational skills.

She has no sense of direction. None.

At first, I thought her propensity to lose her bearings was a choice. I assumed she merely wasn’t making an effort to learn something I find important — like her choice to not memorize the names, positions, years and hometowns of the starters on the Georgia Bulldog football team each season.

Years of watching her frustration in navigating the nine streets in Homerville, though, have led me to the conclusion that her penchant for getting lost is not inane — but, rather, innate.

She can’t help it. Some people don’t have the sense of sight. Some don’t have a sense of smell. Some don’t have common sense (Congress). My wife doesn’t have a sense of direction.

The medical term for her ailment is Whereamiitis. If Sibling Rivalry Disorder or Mathematics Disorder can be considered afflictions, I see no reason Whereamiitis can’t be allowed in the halls of science.

The good news is: There is a work-around for those with Whereamiitis.

My wife has found that by utilizing programs and applications on her phone, she can effectively navigate herself. In fact, she has become quite adept at it. So much so that she has tried to get me to utilize an online app on my phone.

The issue I’ve found with this approach is that the voice used on the app is that of an English woman — soothing and cool.

So, when I miss a turn, she relays that vital information in the same reassuring tone that she tells me how many miles to the next exit.

I would suggest this system use a more distinctive voice, like Mr. T: “I pity the fool that’s not going to turn left!” Or “Hey, you with the teeth, quit your jibber-jabber! You gotta get off at this exit! Turn, fool, turn!!”

That would grab a driver’s attention — which would beneficial to those who are directionally-challenged, like my wife, or distractionally-challenged, like myself.

Or maybe I could just pay attention.