Mom Forgot!

Harold's two jobs left little time for recreation. Still we were privileged to visit other relatives now and then. Neighborhood school friends noted that we traveled as a family.

In preparation for a trip, Dad would spread the map on the floor and share the route. Our lesson charted the direction, calculated the distance and expected arrival time.

On a journey of a different sort we had come from Colored to Negro. We had not yet reached Black or African-American. Motels and restaurants seldom welcomed Negro travelers. So Mom wrapped each two slices of Wonder bread in wax paper to accompany the fried chicken and fruit. The shoe box lunch was supplemented with square, gravy-covered White Castle hamburgers along the way. As for sleeping, Dad would park in a well-lit area and we napped in the car. Burma Shave signs provided reading and entertainment. We were expected to hold our heads high, be first-class citizens and remember landmarks and special points of interest for journal entries upon return.

There were not a lot of hugs and kisses from either of my parents, but having met them, I'm sure there is no doubt in your mind that love throughout our family was mutual. Perhaps this background information makes it easier to understand why I was so reluctant to accept the reality that Mom was exhibiting signs of something more than ordinary forgetfulness. Accept it or not, Mom forgot!

Still another day, as I entered Mom's room, she extended her usual hospitality, offered me a seat and suggested she fix me a bite to eat. We chatted about nothing much. Then she asked me to go downstairs and give a verbal message to my 'mother.' (Chest collapsed!)

Mom really caught me off guard. I stood in a type of suspended animation with my mind in high gear and my mouth in neutral. Gently I asked her, "What did you say?"

She repeated the request very slowly and deliberately as though to make doubly sure I understood this time, "When – you – go – downstairs, – be – sure – to – tell – your – mother..."

I was so flabbergasted that I don't even remember the last part of the message.

After first gasp, I asked, "Who is my mother?"

She laughed and said, "You mean to tell me you don't know who your mother is?"

Clara's head went back, her mouth wide open without a tooth in sight. There was no attempt to cover her mouth with her hand as some might do under the circumstances.

I, on the other hand, was virtually bent double. Together, one might say we brought down the house!

Our combined laughter was sufficient to fill and overflow the room on out into the hall. It would be kind to say we were laughing with each other but in all honesty, we were laughing at each other.

I should have felt a deep sadness because of the reality of the situation, but somehow the laughter had a cleansing effect.