Me and Mama when I was in 5th Grade.

Today is Mama’s birthday. For years, I’d take whatever money I got for Christmas and beg a ride to the store from someone, until I could drive myself, and get Mama a birthday present and a card. One year when I didn’t get any money, I sold my collection of Harbinger comics to buy her a CD organizer and case. Today, per her wishes, I had to bake her a homemade New York cheesecake to go with the card. No card and I could get her a Cadillac and it wouldn’t matter. She’s always been a card fanatic.

I won’t go into her age because even though she doesn’t read my blog because she doesn’t fool with computers much, she would sense through the Mama Force that I had posted her age online where God and everyone else could see it. She would not be pleased. I’m sure y’all know about the Mama Force. It is the supernatural ability to tell just where your child is, who they are with, and what they are doing. It is especially strong and accurate when they are somewhere they are not supposed to be, with someone they are forbidden to see, and doing something they’ve no business doing. The Mama Force is a fearsome thing and it kept me more or less in line.

Not wanting to worry Mama picked up where the Mama Force left off. As long as I can remember, Mama worked hard, crappy jobs to put a roof over my head and food on the table. As you can tell by this picture, Mama was an extraordinarily beautiful woman in her prime. That prime was spent largely raising me. Mama had me at 18 and she and Daddy divorced when Mama was 26.

She had a lot of offers from other men over the years, but once she made it perfectly clear that I was an unquestionable part of the deal, they all pretty much hit the road. It’s because of all the lonely years Mama spent taking care of me when she could have been out having her own fun that I have no patience with young mothers, single or otherwise, who pawn their children off on grandparents or relatives so they can “do their own thing.” I hear them say, “I’m young, I shouldn’t have to settle down.” To which I’ve always wanted to reply, and actually have on more than one occasion, “You should have thought about that while you were on your back with your legs spread.” Mama always told me I hadn’t asked to be brought into this world and since she had drug me here, she has a responsibility.

Mama and me when she finished eye school.

Mama always took care of me, watched over me, looked out for me. She was always there for me. These days, she doesn’t get around as easily as she used to. She’s not elderly by any stretch, but a lifetime of hard work, heartbreak, and hard times has taken it’s toll. The once shiny blonde hair is a respectable iron-grey now, for the most part. It pains me to admit it, but I put more than one of those grey hairs in that head. Truth be told, I put most all of those grey hairs in that head.

Right from the start, I was trouble. She almost died bringing me into the world because her idiotic doctor let her stay in labor for 36 hours before it finally dawned on the doofus that there was no way in Hell a 5’2″ 89 lbs woman was going to bring a 10 lbs baby into the world without some help. The scar she carries from that Cesarean Section has always reminded me of what I cost her. She nearly died having me then gave up her life to raise me.  As a result, Mama has always been perfect in my eyes — the eyes of a child. Even older and wiser as I am now, I cut Mama more slack than anyone else on the planet, including myself. She’s my hero in a lot of different ways and if you haven’t guessed by now, I am 100% a Mama’s Boy. I take little to nothing from Mama in looks or personality. In both respects, I am a close clone of Daddy and the good Lord knows I love him too, but Mama has always been here when everyone else has been gone. Children, even grown children, don’t forget things like that.

Happy Birthday, Mama. I love you.

These things had a LOT of decals!

Christmas Eve has been a favorite day of mine for a long, long time. When I was a child, it meant getting up early and driving to Granny Hughes and her jerk second husband’s house in Columbia for a day of food and presents. That was as far as we ever went when I was a kid and driving with Mama for an hour seemed like an adventure.

I remember one time, we were coming back in a driving rainstorm and Mama couldn’t see plus she was dead tired and nodding off. I kept putting my hand out the window to collect rainwater and rub on her face to keep her awake. Good times. Good times.

By the time I was a car driving teenager, we didn’t have to go to Columbia anymore because Granny had moved in with us. Instead, I’d go hang out with my Aunt Cathy and Uncle Larry and their two sons, Zach and Blake. This particular Christmas Eve, Zach was maybe six years old. Blake was a toddler. The must have toy for that year was the DinoRider Action Figure collection. Zach was in love with all things DinoRider, so Cathy, like any good mother, had gone out and purchased a tandem axle dump-truck load of DinoRider Action Figures for her tow headed eldest boy.

I got to her house about ten on this particular Christmas Eve and the boys were asleep, finally. That was the cue for Cathy, Uncle Larry, and I to put together the “Santa Tableau”.  Most of the toys went together easily enough as I recall, but around midnight, we got to the DinoRiders. The box said “some assembly required.” Yeah, right.

The figures were all put together, BUT none of them had the correct decals stuck on yet. Those were in a sheet PER BOX about the size of the Webster’s Third Edition International Unabridged Dictionary. I started sticking decals on. To make matters worse, the figures had a molded place EXACTLY where the decals were supposed to go, so if you were the tiniest bit out of line, it stuck out like a sore thumb. I didn’t know I had OCD at that time. I just knew I had to get the stickers on perfectly or it would drive me crazy. If you made a mislick and put a sticker in the wrong place, God help you. I’m convinced that had the Titanic been wrapped with DinoRider decals, she would have split the iceberg and made New York in record time. Those things would stick your eyeballs together just looking at them.

Midnight became 2 A.M. which turned into 4 A.M. Finally, at around 5:45 AM, the three of us got the last of the toys ready and set up properly for maximum “Wow Factor” when the boys came in to see them. I stumbled into Zach’s room and collapsed in the bottom bunk of his bunk beds and promptly passed out from exhaustion. I slept like the dead until around 6:15 A.M. when, with the barest hint of dawn just breaking in the window, I was awakened by two pudgy little hands beating me about the head and shoulders with cries of “Shannon, come see! Come see! Santa came!”

Somehow, I managed to stumble into the living room as Zach ran into the midst of half the stockpile of Toys R’ Us arrayed underneath the well decorated tree. Cathy was snapping still pictures and Larry was filming the event with one of the first practical VHS self contained camcorders. Zach, joined a few minutes later by Blake, was so happy and so bouncy that I felt less and less tired. I may even have drank a cup of coffee even though I hated the stuff.

It never ceases to amaze me how time gets away from us. That was twenty years ago at least now. Zach is a grown man and the associate pastor of a church in Gainesville, Florida, but he just posted on FaceBook that he’s home safe. I’ll see him tomorrow at Daddy’s house for Christmas supper and I’m thinking it won’t be long until I have to put together a second generation of toys. You see, the little pudgy, tow headed boy of all those years ago gave one of the most beautiful diamond rings I’ve ever seen to one of the sweetest girls I’ve ever met just this past Thanksgiving. Just yesterday, he was beating me awake to come see him play with his toys. This coming Easter, I get to see him marry the girl of his dreams.

Don’t forget to wash your feet, y’all, and most of all Merry Christmas!

Love y’all a lot!

Granny and Papa Wham on their wedding day, December 22, 1945.

I won’t get to the end of this post with dry eyes.

Had they both lived, today would be my Granny and Papa Wham’s 64th wedding anniversary. Unfortunately for the world in general and me in particular, they have both gone to their reward — I hope the reward which Granny taught about many times in 51 years to the women of the Martha Wham Bible Class at Dials Methodist Church and then at Beulah Baptist Church.

To say they were an incredible couple would be like saying Hurricane Andrew was a strong breeze. Papa returned from The War in Europe in September of 1945 and they were married in December. Papa was 26 and Granny was 24. Papa worked and Granny made a home. In the 45 years they were together they weathered, among many other things, the tragic death of a newborn daughter, a handsome son who was at once the apple of their eye and the bane of their existence, that son’s 13 month tour of duty in the bowels of the Central Highlands of Vietnam, a beautiful and beloved daughter with somewhat expensive tastes, building a house, grandchildren, the son’s divorce, a few hospitalizations, the deaths of many, many family members, sickness, health, riches, poverty, Granny’s stroke, and Papa’s emphysema . Their secret? A deep and abiding love the likes of which I have never, NEVER seen in any other couple I’ve ever watched.

It may be a cliche’ but they never fought. Papa was the undisputed king of the household and Granny was his seneschal. In thirty years, I heard Papa’s voice raised in anger twice. Both times, I was terrified because I had no experience with anything other than his kindness. He watched the Braves play ball while she baked pound cake. He napped on the couch while she read her Sunday School lesson. I wish I could describe their love for each other in proper terms, but I cannot because adjectives don’t exist on this lowly plane to adequately capture their feelings for each other. You couldn’t describe it, but my God how you could feel it!

I remember the last time they parted. Papa was in failing health and the effects of nursing him had begun to tell on Granny. She had a stroke in July of 1995. Papa died two days later. Daddy, Aunt Cathy, and I all believe Papa died of a broken heart. Cathy saw his face as he watched the EMTs place his blushing bride into the ambulance and she said it looked to her like he died right then. He simply could not live without knowing she would be at his side watching his back anymore. He could face German bullets and shells at Anzio and on Omaha Beach, but he couldn’t face life without Granny.

I was with Daddy when we told Granny in her hospital room that Papa was gone. One tear rolled down each cheek and she lowered her head. She never broke down and sobbed like some thought she would. She was too strong for that, but she was never the same. Granny entered a steady decline after Papa died even though she soldiered on in her role as matriarch for our sake. I always told everyone that Granny took care of the family and Papa took care of Granny. I also said that the day would come when she missed Papa and wanted to go find him more than she wanted to stay here and take care of us. That day came in February of 2008. With Aunt Cathy holding her hand and telling her we loved her and to tell Papa we all said hello, Granny left us to rejoin him.

Granny was famous for making Papa wait on her to get ready and check over the house. Despite his unbelievably good nature about everything else, Papa didn’t wait on anything or anyone patiently. In my mind’s eye, I could just see him the moment she arrived at the Pearly Gates, rising from the seat where he’d been waiting with Aunt Judy to say, “Mama, I’ve been waiting. What took you so long?” and her replying as she reached out to take his hand, “Daddy, I had to watch the children a while longer; I came as soon as I could.” Finally, after more than ten years, harmony returned to the Universe; Mot and Frank were together again.

Love y’all. Don’t forget to wash your feet.

Self awareness is a valuable thing, or so I’m told. According to The-Reason-I-Get-Up-In-The-Morning, I am prone to lack such awareness. She often accuses me of “not having a filter.” Actually, I get that a lot. After much pondering and debate, I’ve finally realized the confusion stems from my transmission. I am an automatic shift in a five speed manual world.

The vast majority of people in the world have manual transmission in their heads. Now, anyone who knows anything about stick shifts knows that the car won’t go into gear unless you depress the clutch. This requires some input from the driver, or in this case, speaker. Most people have a thought that hits them wrong and they want to say something, but they work those gears and once they let out the clutch, the situation drives on smoothly.

For good or ill, I’m not like that. I have a Turbo Hydromatic 400 auto tranny between my brain and mouth. That means when I push the gas or someone else pushes my buttons, the car JUST GOES. Burning rubber and burning bridges all at the same time! Now don’t get me wrong. I in no way advocate my way of communicating to anyone who wants to get in a sandbox with others. It’s a lonely existence when you can go from zero to redneck in 5.2 seconds.

Of course, I’ve been that way a long time. By now, those who like me are pretty much willing to take me as I am and those that don’t like me; well, they tend to stay away. I keep telling myself that someday I’m going to swap out this auto slushbox for a nice Muncie 4 Speed with a Hurst shifter . . . but as CCR puts it so very well, “sometimes someday never comes.”

Hope everything’s going well for all y’all. Don’t forget to wash your feet, or at least knock them off, before you get in the car! Love y’all muches.

Mason Benjamin Wham, here at age 27 hours

Ladies and gentlemen, may I be permitted to introduce the first new addition to the Frank B. Wham, Sr. branch of Whams in about 22 years! Meet Mason Benjamin Wham, the absolutely beautiful fruit of my younger brother, Nick’s loins and the result of the hard work of Kerry, my sister-in-law.

He is, of course, flawless in every way and has already scored perfect marks on all his newborn tests. Depending on who one asks, he arrived a week early (by Sissy’s account) or two weeks early (by Dr. Keller’s account). It’s actually a good thing he decided to come on and make his debut because as it was, he was 8 lbs. 7 oz and 20 inches long. A week or two more of floating around and growing and he would have been a hoss sure enough. As it is, he fits perfectly into the crook of an arm and weighs about the same as a large bag of sugar and is just as sweet.

Nick and Sissy brought him home today and I’ll need to be going over there before long to help get him settled in. In all likelihood, he’ll never see the inside of a day care since Nick’s mother, Teresa, is “conveniently” unemployed due to cutbacks at her former office. Daddy is absolutely about to explode with pride over his first (and if Sissy is to be believed, his last) grandchild. I think Teresa may have to sew new buttons on all of his shirts to replace the ones he burst upon Mason’s arrival.

One funny story about his birth. No one told my brother that babies don’t automatically start breathing as soon as they clear the birth canal; so, there he was coaching and waiting like a good new father when Mason pretty much popped into the doctor’s hands. According to Nick, “He was as blue as my blue jeans and he wasn’t breathing. I sank to my knees certain that my son was still born.” Luckily for all of us, a little suction at the nose and mouth and Mason announced his arrival into the world with a set of lungs that would have made his Granny Wham very proud. He also has no problems nursing and has shown a definite appreciation for George Jones songs.

I think he’s perfect.