“Life doesn’t come with a manual; it comes with a mother.”
Anonymous
I like the song – Up Against the Wall Redneck Mother. If you need a soundtrack for Mother’s Day, I think it’s appropriate. Written off the cuff by the great Ray Wylie Hubbard after a perilous late-night beer run and bar fight in Red River, New Mexico, and later popularized by Jerry Jeff Walker, it is questionably one of the greatest songs ever written honoring mothers – mothers who have loved their sons so well.
For the record, I hold the term redneck in the highest regard. Redneck mothers are much like regular mothers, but they come with an extra dose of mamma bear courage paired with a titanium spine. They love their babies hard, often raise them in the country, and turn their offspring into fine citizens, for the most part. If you grew up with a redneck mother, you know it, and are better for it.
My mom, a daughter of the Great Depression, grew up in the tiny burg of Hector, Arkansas. She married my dad in 1953 after he returned from fighting in Korea, and they had two sons, one of whom was me.
My mom was a beautiful woman. I remember my fourth-grade teacher describing her as regal. She had the most captivating laugh I have ever heard. Good with animals, Mom loved horses and dogs. She was especially fond of mean little Chihuahuas. I still have scars on my hands from our vicious little family pet. Mom was also a chicken person, so we always had a few hens. She kept a garden, and enjoyed nothing more than harvesting her tomatoes, fresh out of the sun. And she liked onions. She ate them raw with every meal.
Every year when I was in elementary school, Mom was a redneck Room Mother. At every holiday and special event, she and one or two of her cohorts would show up at school with cupcakes in hand to help us celebrate.
Mom was ever protective, but not above letting her boys experience new things as we grew. We lived in the country, and she let me drive at the age of eleven. Our family car then was a 1961 Dodge Pioneer with red vinyl seats (Mom’s favorite color was red). With Mom in the front seat, and my slew-foot brother and his baseball cards in the back, we sped along the dirt roads of our little community. I felt like Mario Andretti.
Besides driving, another favorite activity that we enjoyed were bike rides. Mom would pack a lunch (fried egg sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil) and we would peddle to Englehardt’s store for a Coke and candy bar, stopping at the pines for a break before navigating more dirt roads back home.
We were a 4-H family, and Mom was present at every club meeting, county fair, and steer show. She even made it to 4-H camp every summer.
Mom was known for her cooking. Our humble family spread at Thanksgiving was legendary. Mom’s turkey and cornbread stuffing were delectable. At Christmas we were blessed with Mom’s amazing fudge. She would make tubs, and we ate it with abandon. And her banana pudding was to die for.
Redneck mothers are tough, and Mom sure was that. And she had a bit of a temper. If her boys were accosted in any way, Mom never hesitated to jump into a fight. One memorable episode happened on a visit to our Gramma Nano’s house. To relieve my brother and I from hours of tedious adult conversation indoors, we were allowed to walk a short way to the local “outlet store” as we called it. With little money, we were content to prowl the isles just looking. On this particular day, an irritable hag of a store clerk ran us out the back door. She evidently saw us as pint-sized potential juvenile shoplifters and told us to leave the store if we weren’t going to buy anything. When we stumbled back to my grandmother’s house and Mom learned that we’d been kicked out, she was livid. She marched us back over to that store and lit up the place. That cranky clerk received a nuclear level chewing out the residue of which may still hang somewhere in the atmosphere above North America. We were then allowed to stay and shop to our heart’s content.
Mom sometimes made enemies, but as a redneck mother, she was never too concerned with what other folks thought. Once an ill-tempered neighbor, Mrs. Lay, came riding by our house on horseback with her dog trailing. Mom happened to be out in our steer pen next to the road, and when Mrs. Lay’s Red Heeler darted under the fence and attempted to chase our livestock, Mom went to throwing rocks. The dog was unhurt, but Mrs. Lay was highly offended and the two commenced a cussing war that I think the neighbors still talk about. It was blistering, but all in a day’s work for a redneck mother.
By loving their children well, mothers build the foundation on which we construct our lives. They teach us how to love, both ourselves and others. And that’s the best thing a mother can do. Thank God for redneck mothers. I love you Mom…