Momma had an odd way of communicating. It was nebulous and imprecise. I spent my childhood in a quandary, a constant state of confusion.
When I was eight, she called out, “Gerry Neil, bring me that thing.”
“What thing, Momma?” It must be important because she used my middle name.
“You know, that thing. That thing in yonder.”
Still lost, I waited. She usually had a follow-up that would help narrow it down.
After getting no more clarity, I hesitantly asked, “Where in yonder, Momma?”
“It’s on top of the …. “
Decades later, I still have no idea what she needed or where it was.
The other day, she walked into the living room and said, “Where did you put that thing?”
“What thing, Momma?”
Through gritted teeth, she replied, “You know, that thiiiiing,” drawing out the last word for emphasis.
“Why do you act like you don’t ever understand a word I say?!?”
Suddenly, I was 8 years old again.
Driving with her was an adventure. Since I was new to the area, I relied on her for directions. Her lack of clarity hadn’t changed over the years. Momma could give very thorough-sounding directions that would lead you to the middle of the ocean even if you started in the desert.
Getting in the car guaranteed growing frustration with every mile. Since she didn’t like swearing, I swore in Spanish to let it out. After 30 years in Miami, I had quite a vocabulary. Unfortunately, the forcefulness one uses when unleashing a barrage of bad words is universal. She quickly figured I was cussin’.
I then reached back to my church roots and prayed for strength to help cope. She suggested that after living all those years in Miami, I ought to be praying more for my soul instead.
After a doctor’s appointment, she wanted to stop by the Alabama Farmers Market, a sprawling parking lot covering many acres filled with trucks of fresh food, lots of it harvested that morning. After stopping at one of the large stands, she wanted to see what Ms. Jessie had. Off we go on a hunt to find her …
“Go that way for a minute.”
“I don’t know how far that is,” I responded with hopelessness in my voice.
“Just go up to the stop sign and turn,” her hand gesturing in a general direction.
When I stopped at the sign, she asked indignantly, “What are you doing?!? Not this one. That one up there!”
Seeing several others ahead, I proceeded with caution. When I reached the right sign, I started to turn, guessing the direction based on her unclear hand gesture. I guessed wrong.
After a few more minutes, with her yelling, “I said, SLOW DOWN!” and me fervently praying without ceasing, we found Ms. Jessie. It was the end of the day, so the choices were limited. Still, Momma found enough baskets of vegetables and a large plant to fill the back seat.
The ride home was mostly highway, which gave us both a break.
Momma stopped offering help when I started using the GPS. She thought I had a special relationship with the nice girl giving directions. It was as close to a daughter-in-law as she’d get from me, and she didn’t want to scare her away.
