Mama’s birthday
Mama and my brother Rick were waiting. The nurses at Avalon had dressed her in anticipation of my arrival. “Hey, Mama,” I greeted her. She glanced up without really moving her head because that’s not as easy to do as it once was.
“Happy Birthday, Mama.” A hint of a smile creased her tight lips, or at least I thought it was a smile. A glint of mischievousness followed, or maybe I was just remembering how her green eyes spark when she is amused, this time like “You’re 99 today, Mama!” “Uh huh,” she said, as if she had been marking them off on a calendar.
“I brought you some presents, Mama.” “Uh huh,” she said. I read the birthday card aloud and showed her the box of Nutty Buddy bars that Rick would keep at his house for a special treat when she visits. I showed her the red Georgia Bulldogs T-shirt. I always bring her a red birthday present. “You want to wear your new shirt when we go celebrate at Golden Corral?”
“Uh huh,” she said.
Golden Corral in Newnan, near Rick’s home, is our hangout when I visit Mama. When we walk in, Mama holding hands with both her boys, people look up from their lunches and smile tenderly. I usually sit with Mama while Rick goes to fill her plate. I take a straw, twist the end of the paper covering the way kids do just to see if their Mama will tolerate another public display. “Here, Mama, see if you can make an arrow out of it,” I say. I place the straw to her lips and she puffs and the paper arrow shoots off the straw. People look up from their plates again and smile. She smiles, too. “We sure have fun, don’t we Mama?” “Uh huh,” she says. “Rick says that some days when he takes you to the park, you just chatter away.” “Uh huh,” she says. “You know I miss not seeing you as often as I used to, Mama.”
“Uh huh,” she says. She reaches across the table and pats my hand.
“You understand what I say, even when you can’t form the right words, don’t you Mama?”
“Uh huh,” she says and I think she nods her head a little. I always try to see if I can make her laugh. I say, “You remember that pet monkey Daddy bought me when I was in the second grade, Mama?” She stares at me. “Don’t you remember, Mama? Daddy and I were both afraid of the monkey and you were the only one the monkey feared. He would have Daddy and me backed into a corner, you would come into the room, and the monkey would throw his hands in the air and squeal with horror. Sort of the way I used to do if you caught me doing something I shouldn’t. I probably still would.” “Uh huh,” she said. “Remember the time the monkey sneaked out of his cage and into the bathroom? Daddy sat down and the monkey peed right on top his head. We heard the racket and went running into the bathroom and Daddy was returning fire at the monkey.” Mama laughed. “Remember how you asked me not to drink because so many of your brothers were alcoholic, Mama?” “Well, I didn’t, Mama. Not until I was 21 and living in Macon. Did I tell you about the time the tackle on the high school football team said at a party, either you are going to take a drink or fight me? I said I would hell of a lot rather fight him than break my word to my Mama. He looked at me like he felt bad about it and just walked away. If he had whipped me he would have had to deal with you then, wouldn’t he Mama?” “Uh huh,” she said. She began to softly sing, “La di la di la di, la di la di la” to the tune of Hank Williams’ “I’ll Fly Away.” People looked up from their plates and smiled tenderly.
I said, “Next year we are going to paint the town red on your 100th birthday. Aren’t we, Mama?”
She stopped singing and said, “Uh huh.”