Despite the considerable time and effort my mother put toward beautifying our home on a budget, I never had a doubt that I was her main priority. Mama organized her busy day so she could be with me as much as possible. She often volunteered in the classroom and served as room mother. When she felt the need to supplement my father’s salary, she took a series of part-time jobs at my elementary school so we could have similar schedules.
She began as crossing guard at the school. Her uniform was a trim navy skirt, jacket and hat, identical to those worn then by Atlanta police women. It suited her well, and she made quite an impression. An old friend, who walked to school each morning, summed it up in a recent Facebook message: “I can never forget your mom. That’s one woman who could stop traffic everywhere she went.” Most of her patrols, all boys back in the 70s, had crushes on her. One student’s father took regular photos of his little girl posing with Mama by the crosswalk. Unfortunately, we never saw any of those pictures, and we never thought to take a photo of our own.
After a few years, she added other jobs inside the school, first as money manager for the cafeteria, later as substitute teacher. I liked it that Mama came to know the primary figures in my world. She became friends with the school staff as well as most of the teachers. Our principal was a large and towering man, a Herman Munster-like figure in a big black suit. His quiet, looming presence in the hallways transformed chaos into orderly quiet. Mama got to know the sweet soul that took refuge behind his foreboding façade. Everyone at the school liked and respected my mother, and I basked in her reflected glory. The principal, custodians, librarian and the office administrators knew me as my mother’s girl, and this was a good thing. Because she was such a fundamental part of the school, school for me became, in a sense, an extension of home.
The money from Mama’s part-time jobs came in handy for purchases my father felt less than enthusiastic about, such as bolts of fabric, flea-market oil paintings, and old furniture she would renew with paint and upholstery. Most of these items have proven to be good investments; they are still with us, either in my parents’ or my house.
Mama realized a more pressing need for her money when my permanent teeth began coming in. It was clear that I had inherited her teeth, which she had always hated. She hadn’t had the benefit of orthodontics, but she was determined that things would be different for me.
In order to get me to the orthodontist, she took up driving again, which she had completely given up when I was a baby. The last straw had been when she was rear-ended in Lexington while sitting at a stoplight. I was strapped loosely into a baby carrier that was in no sense a car seat. The impact knocked me to the floor, but amazingly, I was unhurt. She suffered whiplash and badly bruised knees. For many years afterward, our only car was a 1965 Dodge Polara station wagon. As Daddy liked to say, it was the largest station wagon ever made, and he loved it. He relished zipping up our narrow, curving driveway in it, with only millimeters to spare between the car’s shiny blue paint and the rock wall. I remember a couple of hair-raising sessions in the church parking lot when Daddy was trying to reacquaint Mama with the mechanics of driving. My mother vowed she would never drive again in that car.
When she returned to the roads, it was in a new pale yellow 1972 Datsun 1200. Mama felt an affinity with the car; she said it looked scared, just as she was a timid driver. But it got us out to Decatur for my appointments, and it got Mama to the school. Clear as day, I can see that little car parked in its customary spot under the trees. And I can see my mother stopping traffic, leading children into the crosswalk, looking capable, strong and beautiful. I was proud to be her daughter then, and even prouder now.
