A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || June 28, 2003 || 10:15 pm

So, today in a phone conversation, I told my mother about everything that’s going on around here. You know, marriage-wise. Apparently, my dad said not a word, which is really unusual. They tell each other everything. My mother and I talked for awhile, with me assuring her that Maxim is a good man and there’s not anything going on ‘behind the scenes’, as it were; no mental or physical abuse like in prior marriage endeavors.

There’s something real liberating about talking with your momma from an adult perspective and having her do you the favor of not resorting to trite, not-purposely-but-still-demeaning language.

“Dad and I really love Maxim, you know.”

“Yeah, mom, so do I. And he loves you, too.”

We spoke for a while in quiet, easy tones; my mother has a warm, rich voice and I love hearing her speak, especially when she abandons her sharp wit for just plain deep, full-hearted wisdom. My mother is a lady marinated in sagacity and sometimes says more in three sentences than most folks say in a month.

“You know,” she said to me, “you just may not have been meant to be married, dollin.”

“I know, Mom, and if that’s the way it is, I’m okay with that….I really am. I’m just so….ready for what comes next…” and I sent my free arm sailing in a gesture that I knew that she could feel even though she could not see it.

“Just don’t become a party girl, Elizabeth. You’re gettin’ a bit too old for that.” My mother, ever-practical. My mom, she knows her offspring.

“Please, woman, my life is a zoo. I’ve never heard of a party in a zoo, have you?” And we both laughed. Conspiratorially. Like two grown women, not like mother and daughter. It is not something I would wish for all the time, but it was nice today. It was appropriate today. It’s what my mother does: She anticipates needs and she meets them, cleanly and without fanfare. She’s a hip lady.

I told her about this weblog today. I may live to regret that, but I doubt it. I told her that for the last three years I have been tap-tapping away at this keyboard, setting down all of the silliness and stubborness and hopefullness and anger and wistfullness in my head and my heart. She asked to see it and I said no and she did not press the matter because I explained to her that it was for me, a way to not lose myself in being everything to everybody: Wife, Mother, Friend. I told her that there were people that come here each and every day to read about things that they should by all rights and means not give two fiddler’s-fucks about, but they seem to anyway. That they e-mail me and tell me how I made them smile or think or cry or reflect on their own being. That they ask me, why oh why haven’t you written a book, girl?

“And my readers? They loooove you, momma.”

“Wait. You write about me??

“Yeah, I do. I write about everybody important to me. I use a psuedonym and you all have them, too. And my readers like you people. They like you a lot.”

We spoke for a short time more, then my aunt and uncle showed up to take my parents to a gallery showing somewhere. Dinner, art, laughter. My family. They are spitfire and they are sweet. They are country and they are cultured. They are everything that I am strung out over fifty some-odd people and I am one of the luckiest people in the world by ten miles because I was dropped into the middle of them by some miraculous combination of genetics and good fortune. She and I said our good-byes, said our I love yous, embraced there for a moment across the miles, over the wires, past time and space and reason, nestled deeply into one another’s hearts. She hesitated one last time before we hung up and I said, “Yes?”

“So your readers like me, huh?”

“Yes, momma…they adore you. How could they not?”

5 worked it out »

  1. Kate S. 6.29.2003

    There is nothing more healing to the heart than a phone call with Mama.

     
  2. Superb 6.30.2003

    Unless yo mamma’s a punk-ass like mine is.

    pee ess: Bethykins has one of the sweetest voices this side of the Atlantic. Makes me swoon like a 15-year-old boy in heat. Er, well, you know what i mean.

     
  3. Jettomatika 6.30.2003

    Sup: STOP THAT. EVERYONE KNOWS THAT I SOUND LIKE A GUM-POPPING TRUCKSTOP WAITRESS.

    WITH A BIG, BIIIIIG SMOKER’S COUGH.

     
  4. the olive 7.1.2003

    that’s sweet. :-)

     
  5. Supe 7.2.2003

    This may be the first time that JettSuperbior has lied to her adoring public. But alas, i’ll play along: yes, she sounds like a white trash truck-stop waitress chick. She sounds more like Mel (from “Mel’s Diner”) than she sounds like Flo.

    So kiss mah grits.

     

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