Growing up along the
banks of the Mississippi River, my sisters and I had the kind of mother
every child dreads: a mean one. She was the meanest mother in Warren
County, and her list of rules had no end.
We couldn't sass.
We couldn't say "yep."
We couldn't say "nope."
We couldn't ask for something without saying "please."
We couldn't accept something without saying "thank you."
We couldn't say "golly."
We couldn't say "gee."
We couldn't eat without saying grace.
Indeed, life with Mother consisted of rules, rules and more rules - and
they weren't limited to 329 Hill St. The Queen of Mean had rules for
everywhere.
No smacking gum in the car. No undressing mannequins in stores. No
belching in restaurants.
Even in church, Mother was mean.
As the church pianist, Mother didn't sit beside us on the pew, but
never fear - Mother's eyes could execute orders from afar, no words
required. We called it the Look of Death.
I never understood how Mother could stare at three kids simultaneously
without moving her eyes in either direction, but she did. No blinking. No
wrong chords. Just steady staring and steady playing - lips puckered, one
eyebrow cocked, shoulders rigid. Sometimes it took us a while to realize
that Mother was in the Look-of-Death mode, but once we figured it out, it
didn't take us very long to get spiritual. After all, weeping, wailing and
gnashing of teeth were no foreign concepts to Mother's kids.
I mean, when we sang, "Savior, Savior, hear my humble cry," we meant:
"Right now, God. Mother is looking." The terror of the Lord was one thing
- the terror of the pianist was something else.
Mother was a very gifted woman, capable of doing just about anything.
But nothing was more important to Mother than raising her kids. At times,
I wished it had been otherwise. Mother would have made an excellent
commanding general in the Marine Corps: Giving orders was what she did
best.
Recently, I overheard a mother counting to three after telling her
offspring to do something, and I couldn't help but chuckle. Mother never
counted to three after telling us to do anything. She didn't even count to
one! She ordered. We obeyed. No countdown.
When it came to fashion at our house, Mother had the last word. The
"everybody's wearing it" routine didn't budge the meanest mother in the
world. If Mother didn't like it, it wasn't fashionable. We might not agree
with Mother's idea of style, but we wore it.
As my sisters and I edged toward adulthood, Mother's rules didn't
disappear, but she did fine-tune them a bit to fit the seasons.
Occasionally, she even made rules on the fly as she winged her way through
the unfamiliar terrain of raising teen-age girls.
I remember one such time very well. It was one of my first real dates.
Curfew time was nearing, and Mr. Wrong and I were sitting out front in the
car with the engine off.
As we smiled into each other's eyes, suddenly the porch light came on.
Then it went off again. Then on. Then off. On. Off. On. Off.
Uhh - Mother?
Yes, Mother - still executing orders from afar, no words required.
"Time to say good night and come inside," her switch-twitch was saying.
And, of course, I wasted no time in exiting the vehicle and high-tailing
it to the front door.
It seems that mean mothers aren't as prevalent as they were when I was
growing up. I don't know what happened to them. Instead of mean mothers,
we have a bunch of mean kids - fighting, cursing, killing their
classmates, their teachers, and their own flesh and blood.
I miss mean mothers.
Children miss them, too.
Gayle Allen Cox is a free-lance writer and literary consultant from
Fort Worth.
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