18Mother

 

Mother was born in a small town in Georgia. In the 1920s, during the Florida land boom, her family moved to Florida. Her father was a lawyer who later became a judge, and because of his position, she was raised with a clear warning: don’t get in trouble with the law—it would bring shame upon the family.

She was far from a mild-mannered child, though she managed never to get arrested.

One of her more mischievous moments came in high school. She was out in the school parking lot smoking when the principal spotted her—through binoculars. He called her into his office and asked if her father knew she smoked. Without hesitation, she said yes.

Unfortunately for her, the principal knew her father quite well. He called him and said, “Even though you allow your daughter to smoke at home, she is not allowed to smoke at school.”

Needless to say, her father was furious. He was a strict man, but he didn’t believe in corporal punishment. Still, in his anger, he told her, “I’m so mad at you for smoking and lying, I ought to take off my belt and whip you.”

She looked straight at him and replied, “If you do that, Daddy, your pants will fall off.”

That ended the matter. He simply turned and walked away.

Mother later attended Florida State College for Women, but only for a year. She wanted to become a lawyer like her father, but he wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she turned her attention to social life, and her grades suffered too much for her to continue.

She also wanted to become a buyer at Maas Brothers Department Store, but again, her father disapproved, saying it was beneath her.

For the next four or five years, her life revolved around a lively social world—full of dances, gatherings, and long visits to Savannah, where she spent time with her cousins.

My Mother

She was never a quiet woman, never one to fade into the wallpaper—

she arrived like laughter, like a story already in motion,

the life of every room she entered.

Words were her currency, freely given, woven into long evenings

where I, just home from somewhere else, was gently captured

and drawn into her orbit again.

She spoke of life as something real—not softened, not promised easy.

“You won’t always be happy,” she said, because she had lived it—

the rising and the falling, the grace of continuing on.

She believed in where we came from, in roots that ran deeper than money—

in a kind of dignity you carried in how you lived,

not what you owned.

And if the world forgot its manners, she would remind it.

She had her sayings—little sparks of humor and warning—

“cat’s fur to make kitty britches,” when I drifted too far into nonsense,

and that look that told me she saw right through me.

I tested her, as strong-willed children do, pushing at edges,

pulling at patience.

“Lois, you’ll send me to Chattahoochee,” she’d say, half serious, half smiling—

love wrapped in exasperation.

But always—always— she stood beside me.

Not behind, not far away, but there—steady, certain—

my champion in every room, my voice when I didn’t yet have one,

my belief when mine wavered.

She was laughter and lessons, sharp wit and open heart,

a woman who lived fully and loved without hesitation.

And in all the noise of her words, all the stories and warnings and wit—

there was one quiet truth she never needed to say:

I was hers,