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Mom Was Right

Country Wisdom from the Family Matriarch

By Race McKeePublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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My mom spoke in colloquialisms. Considerable wisdom lies in southern sayings, though those insights are often lost on our northern brethren. But we’ll forgive our Yankee friends for many of these maxims are steeped in lore from days of yore. If you said “that hound won’t hunt” to someone who hails from north of the Mason-Dixon Line, they’d likely think you were adopting a rescue dog.

Many of mom’s witticisms were pointed in my direction to impart relationship advice. My mama reveled in “sticking her spoon in my soup” when it came to love. As she got up in years, her television (with the volume perennially set at “100”) seldom strayed from either the Cooking Channel or the Western Channel. For some reason, the latter always piqued her curiosity when it came to my feminine affiliations. In an attempt to get her off the trail of my love life, I once asked, “Mom, who’s your favorite western star?” Without hesitation she replied, “Oh, John Wayne can put his boots under my bed anytime.”

I had the privilege of caring for my mother in her waning years. On one rare occasion, I wrested control of the remote from her when she nodded off for a nap. When she awoke, the TV was turned down and airing something actually produced in the twenty-first century. Mom tended to wake up grouchy, even more so when she noticed no saloons, gun belts or saddled horses on the show I’d selected. During the show's dialogue, an attractive twenty-something casually mentioned she was “bisexual.” My mother inquired, “What’s that?”

I replied, “That’s someone who might be attracted to either a man or a woman.”

Mom connoitered on this new revelation for a spell and said, “Sounds like a greedy little bitch to me.” It’s tough enough finding love when you’re only playing half the field so I reckon it does offer a sizable advantage if you can hit from both sides of the plate. I guess mom was right.

I once shared with mom that I was dating two women at the same time. The interrogation began and I assured her I had not discussed the three “Ms” with either young lady.

She inquired, “What’re the three Ms?”

I replied, “Monogamy, moving-in or marriage.”

She pondered, then remarked, “Well, figer’ it out. You cain’t ride two hawses with one arse.” Mom was right.

When I whittled those two love interests down to one, I introduced “the one” to mom. Mom did not exactly “cotton to her.” When my mother got me alone, she remarked, “Now, that one you got there is prettier than a pat o’ butter on a short stack and I guess there’s a lid for every skillet but you oughtta’ put that one back under the stove. Them purty ones are like a bathtub. Once you get used to it, it ain’t so hot no more. Mark my words, you fall for her and you two will end up splittin’ the blanket.” Mom was right.

One afternoon, I took mom to a little country summer soiree. It was an outdoor affair with tender pulled pork, crispy fried chicken and of course, lots of casseroles. The latter should all be served with cholesterol meds as each contained at least one of the following ingredients: cream of mushroom soup, melted Velveeta cheese or copious amount of mayonnaise. I fixed mom a plate. Soon thereafter, a few good ole’ boys, who all knew how to pick and grin, lit up the lawn with a little live music. Mom caught me eyeing a long-legged lass who half danced and half sashayed across the yard. I asked, “Mom, she’s not one of our cousins, is she?”

Our family matriarch advised, “No, she ain’t but you might want to tread careful there and just put your tongue back in your mouth. I’ll admit she’s pretty enough that you’d wanna’ waltz her on your arm up to the front row.” Then she leaned in conspiratorially and continued, “And atwixt you and me, she’s rumored to be livelier in bed than a puppy with two tails, but she’s goin’ through a divorce with a jealous man who’s big as a bear and ornerier than a one-eared alley cat. She’d be like lickin’ honey off a blackberry bush. It’s temptin’ but you’re just gonna’ get all cut up.” Mom was right.

But I hail from a stubborn bunch and I had to have me a lick or two of that honey. In my defense, my mother should’ve left out the part about my long-limbed beauty’s energetic enthusiasm between the sheets. On that point, mom was surely right.

“The leggy-one,” as my mother called her, finalized her divorce and the jealous husband left the state. Not long after, “Legs” and I moved in together and Lawd, have mercy did my mother have lots to say on the matter. The highlights included, “There you go…plantin’ your corn before the fence is built just so’s you can eat your supper before sayin’ grace.” She was right.

Then there was the fiery, New York Italian I ended up marrying. This gal insisted upon having the last word in everything and was known to get “madder than a wet hen” to prove her point. When she got her dander up, it made me nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs so I tried my level best to selectively pick my battles. But I spawn from a prideful brood and nary a one of us tends to pass gently into the sweet night if we feel like we’ve been handed the pointy end of a stick. If we think we’re right, my kinfolk’s surname and “agree to disagree” seldom collide in the same sentence. As a result, my new bride and I were known to have “quite the row” upon occasion. Hence, my mother offered this final pearl of wisdom before she passed, “Plantin’ crops is a whole lot simpler if you plow around the stumps.” She was right.

I surely do miss that woman.

advice
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About the Creator

Race McKee

Race McKee is an award-winning humorist whose recent stage play, “Couples Therapy,” enjoyed a successful run in New York City and his short story, "A Night in St. Louis" was recently published in the Anthology, "Stories Through the Ages."

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