I n the movie "Because of Winn Dixie," a little girl begs her father to tell her 10 things about her mother, the woman who has abandoned them both. Opal, the girl, has only vague memories and wants something, anything, to fill in her dreamy impressions.
I watched the movie at my parents' house and felt inspired to write down 10 things about my own mother, who, perhaps at times, felt like abandoning all of us. Thank goodness she never did.
No. 1: Mother doesn't like dogs, and she makes no bones about it. The only dog she ever made an exception for was a ferocious little biter named Muffin who once drew blood from my former husband's ankle.
I thought I'd get that out of the way first.
No. 2: Mother saves everything, and eventually we are all glad she did. Without her I would not have in my possession a copy of my kindergarten graduation program, a white, waffle-weave baby coat my grandmother sewed for me, kitchen canisters emblazoned with red sailboats that were a gift at Mother's long-ago bridal shower. Without her, none of the rest of the family would know a thing about our ancestors, or have a suitcase full of old photographs to match our kin's names.
No. 3: Mother loves books. She loves books the way some women love shopping. She loves the way they smell, and their heft in her hand. She loves the words and the illustrations and the story behind the stories. Before we could read, she read to us. Every day. After we learned to read, we read aloud to her. Every day.
In a time in our family when every cent was budgeted, she bought us the Encyclopedia Britannica on the installment plan and ferried us in the big Buick all the way to the downtown library. Every Christmas, no matter what else was under the tree, we each got a new book, including "Anne of Green Gables" and "Make Way for Ducklings." Somehow, a Christmas not so long ago, she found a way to get for me a signed copy of "To Kill a Mockingbird."
No. 4: Before there was a Miss Manners or a Martha Stewart, Mother taught us how to set the table properly and to write thank-you notes. She ironed sheets and washcloths. I didn't always see the importance of those niceties, but I do now. (Except I still don't iron sheets or washcloths.)
No. 5: Mother is apolitical. She proves the adage that all politics is local, judging her state governors by whether the grass along the highway is kept trimmed during a particular administration, and presidents by their wives. She doesn't clutter her mind with the unpleasantness of political shenanigans, and talk radio would be bankrupt if everyone were as uninterested in topical affairs as Mother.
No. 6: She loves her hometown. She would deny it, but Mother believes that tiny Colquitt, Ga., is the center of the universe. She calls Colquitt simply "Georgia," as if the rest of the state, including the mighty metropolis of Atlanta, doesn't count at all.
No. 7: She is generous to a fault, worrying about Christmas presents for everyone she knows. Somehow we four children always got a reasonable facsimile of what we wanted for Christmas, from cocker spaniels to hot-pink corduroy bellbottoms.
No. 8: She loves food. Like the French, she enjoys the preparation, the presentation and eating it. Mother can tell you what she had to eat at a random restaurant on a trip 20 years ago when the rest of us have forgotten making the trip. She makes wonderful cornbread dressing.
No. 9: Nobody ever has to guess what she is thinking. Mother doesn't have a poker face or a duplicitous bone in her body. I can't always guess what will please her, but I sure know what hasn't.
No. 10: Mother once was a young teacher with coal-black hair and big blue eyes and an easy laugh. She knew the names of Old Master paintings and all the verses of favorite poems. Not long ago she got a letter from a former pupil who said she was the first love of his life.
Rheta Grimsley Johnson writes for King Features Syndicate.
