The influence of a mother in the lives of her children is beyond calculation. – James Faust
One winter morning, a Friday not so long ago, my mother was discovered dead in her recliner. The television played on. Know she died the night before. Watching ‘Jeopardy.’ Vana probably turned the first letter and Mom hollered out the solution to the puzzle and passed away from the excitement.
I remember… We were taking Mom out to lunch, then shopping. She loved to eat. Seafood, especially. She loved to shop. As I pulled up in front of the entrance of the mall, I saw a bunch of brightly painted waist-high poles. So no jihadist could drive an explosive-laden vehicle into the food court. Didn’t recall seeing those poles before, so I asked the old girl about them. “Yes, it’s new and I don’t like it.”
After a lovely meal and she ate everything on her plate, we – ooohhhh ssooo verrry slowwwwly – walked to her target store, Dillard’s. Here we made a tragic mistake, embarrassed now even to tell you about it. We put her and her walker with the pink fuzzy tennis ball feet on an escalator. What the hell were we thinking? Managed to catch her as she shot off the top.
Semi-annually, we take Mom on a bra shopping trip. My wife is key to this effort, while I go for a walk. Me sitting in the ladies undergarment department… well, I sense store security becomes uneasy. Not to mention the teenagers.
Annually, we are tasked with acquiring towels. Always blue. Sounds easy, right? Not so long ago, we had to take the towels back to the store. Seems this set of towels would absorb so much water, Mom almost lost her balance, almost fell, drying herself. The wet towels were too heavy.
Which reminds me of the time we bought her a barely used pearl Lincoln.Sweet price, great vehicle.Didn’t even take a test-drive.Mistake that was.Turns out she wasn’t strong enough to turn the ignition key.Lost some money on that deal.A couple years ago, Mom decided she needed a pair of white slacks. I think it was Macy’s and my wife was again hard at work, while I was hard at walking somewhere else.
Mom suddenly stopped! and looked at my wife’s white pants.
“I like those a lot, you look so cute.”
“These are jeans, Norma.”
“Jeans? Hmmm, I have never had a pair of jeans.”
“Well, they don’t fit the same as most slacks. They are sometimes difficult to get into and out of.”
Which I think constitutes a bit of a hint for a crippled old lady with bad feet, bad knees, bad hands, bad elbows, the list goes on.
“I’ve never had a pair of jeans,” was her only response.
Okay, so Peggy gets a couple of pairs of white jeans and hands them into the dressing room.
“Now, remember, these might be a little tight at first.”
By now I am back from my latest stroll. And I sit down next to Peggy, who looks a little fatigued. Time passes.
“Norma, you doing okay in there?”, I wonder loudly.
About which time, the drapes are thrown open. Mom has a great smile and is now beaming proudly.
She turns her walker around, her back toward us and asks seriously, “How does my butt look?”
Norma Jean Moore Welch: 8/30/1925-1/17/14