Mama Followed Me to Florida
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THE TAMPA TRIBUNE
From the upcoming book, Mama Followed Me to Florida
For the first twenty-nine years of my life, I never dreamed my mother could ever be my friend. I thought I would have to envy other mother-daughter relationships from afar, and be content that at least we'd made it through my teenaged years with most of our hair and fingernails in tact.
Our wars of words, when we both defended the shaky ground we stood on for no good reason but what seems like now only to defy the other, often began on cold and gray winter Alabama mornings, and ended with scribbled notes of apology slid under my bedroom door after I'd gone to sleep.
She had lived among the tall pine trees and green hills of north Alabama for all her life. But three years was all she could take of the isolation of rural life.
So in 1993, we loaded up the back of my Nissan with her clothes and what I hoped were things she'd want again one day, and drove to Florida.
She resisted the idea, like a lot of my great ideas, but finally she let me hook her up to the internet (webtv) and she started writing to me. In her e-mails she revealed herself to me. Her understanding of people and ways of the world were wedged between the details of what her neighbors were doing, what she had for breakfast, and what trinket she'd picked up for me.
I know she loves me now, more than I could have ever known before our e-mail conversations. One of the many things I didn't know before our e-mail journey began was that she could make me laugh. I'd waited for that all my life.
Ch.1 Springtime and Sunset
If Mama was a flower, the instructions for her care would read, "prefers lots of indirect sun, hardy, blooms all year, needs lots of water."
Ch.2 Blessed is the Peacemaker
Ch.3 Where are the Scissors?
Ch.4 Don't Fart in Bed
Ch.5 Will there be a JCPenney's in Heaven?
Ch.6 Sweet Dreams and Milk
Ch.7 One Love
Ch.8 Goodwater, Coldwater, Clearwater
Ch.9 Men Like Red
Ch.10 Thank You Just the Same
Ch.11 Fresh Grease
Ch.12 Tickled by the Devil
©2007
I was 40 years old before Mama let me cook in the same kitchen with her at the same time.
I had never developed the patience for cooking, especially by a recipe. That Sunday morning, I’d seen the bananas laying on the table, spotted brown, just perfect, as she used to say, for a pudding.
I knew only one way I’d be sure to have a cold banana pudding in the refrigerator by nightfall. Before I drove to her tiny apartment around noontime and picked her up to spend the day with me, she’d e-mailed three times reminding me of the ingredients, making sure I had them all. It’s a simple recipe but it does require the delicate mixing of just the right amounts to make the banana flavor just right. At first, she told me she’d just tell me how to make it and watch. That she didn’t feel like standing so long. But she didn't stay in her chair, and I was glad.
We were standing in the big open kitchen of the house where I lived. I was at least three inches taller than Mama now and both of us wore some shade of brown from a box on our naturally curly hair.
“You need a bigger bowl,” she said, opening cabinets until she found the right one.
“I’m glad I brought this flour. I didn’t figure you’d have any.” She was right.
(An excerpt)
I had never developed the patience for cooking, especially by a recipe. That Sunday morning, I’d seen the bananas laying on the table, spotted brown, just perfect, as she used to say, for a pudding.
I knew only one way I’d be sure to have a cold banana pudding in the refrigerator by nightfall. Before I drove to her tiny apartment around noontime and picked her up to spend the day with me, she’d e-mailed three times reminding me of the ingredients, making sure I had them all. It’s a simple recipe but it does require the delicate mixing of just the right amounts to make the banana flavor just right. At first, she told me she’d just tell me how to make it and watch. That she didn’t feel like standing so long. But she didn't stay in her chair, and I was glad.
We were standing in the big open kitchen of the house where I lived. I was at least three inches taller than Mama now and both of us wore some shade of brown from a box on our naturally curly hair.
“You need a bigger bowl,” she said, opening cabinets until she found the right one.
“I’m glad I brought this flour. I didn’t figure you’d have any.” She was right.
