Former beauty queen, a debutante of the 50s, and the Jackie O. of the South, (clothes-wise.) When I think of my mama, I think of a spotless house, a house that Home Beautiful, Good Housekeeping, or HGTV would kill to photograph, a perfect yard, a wardrobe from here to eternity, and a home cooked meal-three times a day. I think of children, and laughing until my stomach hurts. I think of her silly and often goofy way of asking too many questions or saying something stupid and off the wall. Sweets. Mama loves anything sweet … cookies, cakes, pies … she adores pastries. Unfortunately, she passed that on to her all of her offspring.
And I think of a workhorse.
Good God in heaven, the woman could work like a pack mule. Up before dawn running the vacuum by my bed, and still scrubbing floors at two in the morning, then fix a full course breakfast by seven. I swear she never stopped. I’ve seen her take a heavy bucket of tar pitch to the roof and spend hours patching holes on a hot day! She’s dug ditches, laid carpet, mowed and tended to two acres of flowers and gardens, cooked endless meals, ironed and starched mountains of ruffled 100% cotton curtains, wiped snotty noses and diapered too many baby butts. And still looked pretty for church on Sundays.
But it was what she wanted. Her biggest desire in life was to have a family and a beautiful home. That’s it. Nothing more, nothing less. It's still her comfort zone. She was and is, a happy woman. And she passed on that desire of home and hearth to me. She had no thought of leaving her babies and working outside her home. Mama was there for us, every day. We had her at a moment’s notice. We still do.
In her seventies now, illness has tried to bring her down, and we almost lost her a time or two a couple years ago … but the woman is amazing. She takes a licking and keeps on ticking! She's like a prizefighter in a ring who won't go down no matter the punch.
My mama’s stories all center around her horrible childhood. The story she tells that breaks my heart is about the roach in the roast. She knows what it means to go hungry. I suppose that's why she's known for force-feeding her children and her guests. Then, there are her memories of giving birth to her five children. She holds nothing back—believe me, relaying her labor pains as clear today as the day I was born.
She makes no bones about how she loves us all, but loves us all differently. We’ve all given her major hissy fits. I think she’d have strangled us a few times if she could’ve got away with it. But over the years, she's learned not to worry so much and has slowed down ... some. At least we try to restrain her, and it’s not easy. Time has put some Band-Aids over her wounds, but it often hurts me to see her getting older. I hate it.
She’s proud of her grandchildren, though. Carries on about them, you’d think they were made of gold or something. All nine of them. Aaron, Jillian, Britney, Bethany, Sara, Samuel, Kelsey, Shaina, and Marissa. And her two great grandsons, Evan and Caleb.
I made her a grandma when she was only 39. Can you imagine that? It’s her world. My daddy and her grandchildren. It’s all she talks about.
She’s had her moments in the sun. She was and still is, despite having to take a ton of drugs like Prednisone, a striking woman, and kind. Very kind.
My mama has learned she can talk to God in her living room; she doesn't need to be in church to hear His voice. Her childlike faith is the basis for her many spiritual revelations, after all the woman has heard, felt, and seen things that most people only read about, or see in movies, or think people like her are crazy. Nah, Mama's just open to the Spirit, "ain't nothin' strange about that," she says. For her, talking to her heavenly Father is no different than me picking up the phone and calling my own daddy. She's the most spiritual woman I know.
My life and my mother’s life are nothing alike. She’s been loved for over 51 years by the same man. Her childhood a blur, a family of alcoholics and siblings that didn’t give a damn about her most of her life, she’s still a peacemaker.
Today is her birthday … she’ll never read this … computers are as foreign to her as the man in the moon. She won’t let daddy have one, it "doesn't go with the décor of my house." So Daddy still uses his manual Royal to type and never complains. Her home is "her" castle. He worships the ground she walks on. And she in turn, caters to his every need. A near perfect union.
She was born, Joyce Ann Oaks, on October 16, 1934. She lived many years in Alabama, Tennessee, and Summersville, WV. She attended Nicholas County High School, which is where she met Daddy. Darrel King fell in love with her the moment he laid eyes on her. She was, and still is, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.
Happy Birthday, Mama!
Please give us many, many more to celebrate.
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