My Redheaded Mom

My five foot-ten inch, orange-blooded, Rocky Top singing, mother of four boys, red-head from Alcoa, Tennessee is best labeled in one term, Boss-Mom. I could write a book about her zest for life and accomplishments but instead will take you to the very hot summer of 1965 when we were stationed at Craig Air Force Base, Selma, Alabama. By the end of the story, maybe you will concur, that she earned this high and honorific designation.

Summer of 1965, Selma, Alabama

Fighter jets screamed overhead as I retrieved the football that had slipped through my seven year old hands. Monikers like, "Lil boy, baby, and runt" were tossed at me by my older brothers along with random Charlie horses to my sweating arms. Today they saw me, most days they didn't.

My favorite story was "The Invisible Man" and I'd pretend I was the invisible boy. I preferred to be outside, and alone, rather than in the cramped quarters of our Air Force Base house.

I rubbed my bruised arm, and turned my face to the sky. A sleek Northrop T-38, flying war machine, passed five hundred feet above. The high-pitched engines whined like a dentist drill and propelled the jet on its base leg to final. The plane banked left and I could make out the silhouette of a pilot and I wondered,

"Is that dad? Can he see me? "

My mom, in the carport, shouted to me in her east Tennessee accent,

"Let's go, you're riding with me." She rescued me from further sibling abuse, though I preferred to fight back. I didn't argue because the one absolute law in the Wade house forbade it. My Mom was the boss.

The Wade Law: Never, ever, talk back to mom. Any violation carried the death penalty, without appeal, from my dad, Captain Wade, fighter pilot, warrior and executioner.

I clambered into the passenger seat of the cherry red, 1964 MGB Roadster. My mom started the engine and the engine purred as it warmed. She lit a Benson and Hedges 100, inhaled and exhaled. The acrid scent of fresh smoke circled around my face and I asked,

"Where are we going?" She exhaled the foggy carbons and replied,

"To town, County Courthouse, I have to register to vote."

I asked, "Can we stop at the Burger Chef?"

She said, "No!" and put the MGB in gear, and we set off to Selma, three miles away.

The wind washed my face and danced with my mom's scarf as we crossed, the muddy red Alabama River, over the Edmund Pettus Bridge. She navigated the sportster through town and into a parking space in front of the Dallas County Courthouse.

The Selma sun, high in the sky, destroyed all shade and sweat ran down my neck. We approached the steps and saw African Americans, in a line twenty deep, outside the front door to the left. They glimmered with sweat that ran down their necks like mine.

The temperature had to be over a hundred degrees and showed no bias. At the doorway, an overweight deputy Sheriff, in a sweat stained uniform, guarded the entrance to the courthouse.

"What's your business?" He demanded of my mom.

"I'm here to register to vote." She said.

He opened the door and gave directions to the Voter Registration office.

The ancient building remodeled in 1960, though new, stunk of something old, like sour sweat produced by fear. The fear of change. The building reminded me of the place my Aunt Polly had been buried the past summer in a mausoleum.

My mom found the correct office, and we arrived at a counter an old man attended. He appeared as old and rude as the building, like they were one and the same. The clerk stared at a document.

"What do you want?" He asked.

"To register to vote." my mom replied.

The clerk, took off his spectacles, looked up, and scanned us with his mousy eyes. Satisfied, he asked,

"Have you taken the history test yet?"

Surprised, my mom asked,

"What history test?"

"The test everyone has to take, since.... well....since the new Voter Law passed! You're not from around here are you?" He accused.

Warning bells rang through my head and I held my breath. I sensed my mom's agitation and I expected Captain Wade, fighter jet and all, to appear at any time.

I thought, "This rude man is in serious trouble, He doesn't know who he is messing with."

My mom, the dutiful Air Force officer's wife, regained her composure, and replied in her east Tennessee accent,

"No sir, I am from Alcoa, TN, but we are all Americans, correct?"

The surly clerk didn't reply but gave her a slip of paper and said,

"Take a left out of here, go to room 105 and take the test. Come back here after. You will need the answers on the paper to pass."

Like a loyal soldier I followed my mom to room 105. She took the five question history test and received a receipt with instructions to return to the clerk. My mom restrained her anger and stayed silent, I knew she was mad, and an execution inevitable. I expected a fighter jet to pass overhead at any time.

Ten minutes later she received her voter registration card and we left the courthouse. The fat deputy had left his post. My mom, stopped, and ordered me to wait on the step. I obeyed. She walked straight to the first black man waiting in line and asked him,

"Are you here to register to vote?"

The African-American, his shirt soaked with sweat, answered her,

"Yes, ma'am, we are trying to find out the questions for today's history test. We have folks on standby at the library to find the answers. Usually we can register five a day."

"My name is Kathy, and I hope this will help." She said, and handed him the slip of paper, with the answers, that no one had asked to be returned and his eyes lit up with relief, and hope. His eyes met hers and said,

"My name is Henry and I'm grateful, Ma'am! Most days, we register five, but because of your help today, twenty." He pointed past her and said,

"You're gonna be in trouble Ma'am."

The deputy had returned as my mom talked with Henry.

"Ma'am, you can't be talking to him! The officer ordered and stepped toward them.

"Move on!" He commanded.

My Mom with her bright auburn hair lit like fire and a face flared red beyond the heat of the day, turned, and snapped,

"I can talk with whomever I please!"

The Deputy, hesitant, backed up a step. I decided he might be smarter than he appeared and realized the danger of messing with my mom.

A police cruiser sped to the scene with its blue beacon light on, and skidded to a stop at the curb. The side panel read, Dallas County Sheriff. It could have been Andy Griffith or Barney Fife that exited the car, but it wasn't. The oversized man more closely resembled a Boss Hog in his beige uniform shirt, brown pants, and officer’s hat. He had an overgrown Bama belly, held up by an overworked four inch black belt and a face that scared me. The two black holes for his beady eyes were buried in a smooth bowl of chins and jowls.

He demanded from the deputy, "What's going on here, Deputy?"

"This woman is disturbing the peace, Sheriff!" He said as he pointed to my Mom.

The Bama man, the sheriff, walked to the curb, and stared at my Mom.

"Identification?" He ordered. With his hand outstretched.

She took my hand and we approached the Sheriff.

He repeated, "Identification ma'am!"

I thought, "Who is this man treating her like this? He doesn't' know my mom."

My mom presented the sheriff her driver's license and military I.D. The Sheriff took and studied them. His face reddened and he said,

"You're one of those." His mint julep drawl preached on, "You do-gooder outsiders are always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong. I should charge you with disturbing the peace ma'am, but I'm telling you to get in your car and leave town. Now!"

Unattended, everyone from the line had entered the courthouse to take the test and register to vote.

My mom, snatched her identification back, took my hand, and led me to the MGB, under the glaring stare of the Sheriff, to head back to base. As we walked to the car, she squeezed my hand and she whispered,

"Freedom."

She drove us out of town and crossed back over the river to leave Selma behind. The wind washed my face and danced with her scarf once again. Her face burst into a smile that outshone the sun. Some mission had been accomplished.

To my delight, she turned the MGB into the Burger Chef, and the succulent scent of burger smoke filled my senses, and I smiled too.

My Mom was boss.