My mother had more intestinal fortitude than any other woman I’ve ever known. In the summer of 1958, she loaded her mother, a weeping and love-lorn fourteen-year-old, a pre-teen, a nine-year-old, a toddler, and our claustrophobic cocker spaniel—Happy-- into a yellow Pontiac station wagon and began the long drive to Deland, Florida.
Mom had to do all the driving. She was the only one who knew how and was licensed to do so. (The practice driving that Tomi and I had done in a carry-all in a nearby parking lot did not count. As a matter of fact, had Mom known about that, she would not have been happy at all.) Mamaw rode shotgun with our heavily drugged cocker spaniel at her feet. Tomi and I occupied the middle seat, and Ben and Mort were relegated to the backward-facing car-sick seat where Ben made faces at the cars behind us. Mamaw had never driven and was, therefore, a very complacent passenger. Tomi was disgusted with me since I was continually weeping mournfully about our moving and leaving my boyfriend behind. I wept; she rolled her eyes at me. Mom ignored me, but Ben enjoyed taunting me with, “Cry baby, Karen,” and “Boohoo. Karen lost her boyfriend,” the latter repeated sing-song until I hit him. Mom then told me to “Knock it off,” whereby I considered using that prompt as an okay to knock off Ben’s head. Mom then threatened us with the age-old Mom question: “Do you want me to pull over?”
When we drove into Tennessee, Ben began to read, aloud, all the signs announcing upcoming attractions. “Crazy Charlie’s! Five miles!” “Stucky’s! Can we stop? I wanna pecan log.” “Look! Indian Eddie’s Fire Works! Roman candles. I want Roman Candles!” He was driving me crazy and distracting me from my mourning rites, and so I shouted, “Mom! Make Ben stop!”
This time, she did drive into a dirt parking area by a road-side stand. I can still see her clearly. She wore a crisp white dress covered in big green polka dots and belted with a wide green patent leather belt. She had accessorized with green and white spectators with three-inch heels and white earrings the size of silver dollars. Neatly coiffed and wearing red lipstick, she looked beautiful. But the expression on that beautiful face was scary. She opened the passenger door and commanded: “Everybody out!”
Ben immediately climbed over my seat, kicking me in the head. Mort, a clueless toddler, did the same, thinking a wonderful new game had been initiated. Tomi mumbled under her breath—she was a master of this—“I didn’t do anything.” I stepped out, careful not to get dirt on my new sandals, and feeling righteously indignant because, as far as I was concerned, “Ben started it.”
Mamaw got out, stretched, lit up a Pall Mall, and wandered away from the fracas. Happy lay in a drugged stupor in the floor of the front seat. Mom, arms akimbo at her tiny waist, glared at us and said nothing—nothing for what seemed an eternity. We three older children were squirming, but Mort, oblivious to all, played in the dirt. Finally she spoke: “We have to get to Marietta, Georgia, by supper time if you all want to swim. Now I’ve had just about enough, you all. Karen, for Pete’s sake, stop crying. It’s getting on my last nerve. This isn’t a picnic for me either. Tomi, I can hear you muttering. Stop it. Ben, stop being obnoxious. Leave your sisters alone. Now, all of you, get back in this car, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.”
That’s all it took. That little woman had a tone that left little doubt about her message. She meant business, and we knew it. Peace prevailed, for a while. Until Happy awoke from her stupor.
Please understand: Happy really did have claustrophobia. She had chewed out of a heavy cardboard box when she was a brand new puppy. Once, she had been put into an out-building while she was in heat, and she chewed off the corner of a solid wooden door. She became frantic the only other time we had tried to put her in the car to take her to the vet. The local large animal vet made house calls on our dog. And so, when it was decided—by the Powers that Be—that we were moving to Florida, there was never any doubt about our taking Happy with us. She was a part of our family and much loved. However, Mom had to requisition several bottles of liquid tranquilizers to make this even possible.
It was about an hour after we had been read the Riot Act in a parking lot that Happy awoke. She came abruptly to life--barking frantically and jumping from the front to the back seat in an attempt to find an exit. “What next?” Mom sighed, looking at the car ceiling in silent prayer.
Mom pulled onto the side of a two-lane highway somewhere in rural Georgia. Mamaw, in her pretty purple and pink voile dress and heels, helped Mom corral the hysterical dog--who, at this point, was yapping shrilly, salivating profusely, and clawing at the air—and held her so that Mom could open her mouth and pour in some tranquilizer. We older kids felt like giggling at the slap-stick scene we were witnessing but thought better of it. Only Mort, too little to know better, stroked his blanket and wailed, “Mommy hurt Happy!” Tomi and I eventually shushed him as we recognized that Mom had her hands full enough.
After Happy had settled into a peaceful lethargy, Mamaw and Mom leaned against the side of the station wagon under the blazing Southern summer sun and lit up a cigarette. Stepping back into the car, Mom took out a hanky and wiped her brow, combed her hair, and reapplied lipstick. Looking over at Mamaw, who was repairing the damage to her French twist, Mom smiled and said, “Ready to head ‘em up and move ‘em out?” That was Mom, a woman of unmatched poise wrapped in a pretty little package. She had grit that few guessed just by looking at her.
Mom maintained her sunny demeanor, even when we ate in a restaurant next to Smith’s Motel, even while Ben grabbed all the little pats of butter, ate them, and said, “Yum! Cheese!” I muttered something appropriate for a fourteen-year-old akin to, “Gross!” and Tomi rolled her eyes. Mom just smiled, inhaled deeply on a Viceroy, and sipped a cold gin and tonic. Day one was done.
When I think of the times I was at my wits end on the thirty minute trips from my house to Maysville or Portsmouth, I simply marvel at my mother’s ability to maintain composure and control in the most exasperating of circumstances. How did she do it? She was definitely made of tougher stuff. No doubt about that. They just don’t make them like Joyce Elizabeth any more.
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