My mother rides motorcycles and plays golf

Doris, my mother, is going to play golf.

Now that statement in itself probably does not cause you alarm but remember a small puff of wind off the coast of Africa can become a hurricane and make 100,000 people evacuate their homes in New Orleans.

My mother is barely four feet 10 inches tall, has osteoporosis, taught Sunday school for over 40 years and drives herself anywhere at anytime she chooses. I call her about four or five times a week and hope I catch her at home.

I should not have been surprised then when she informed me this week that at the age of 77 she intends to take up golf. Mother did not get to where she is by just baking muffins.

She was the guest speaker at the Golden Scriptures Bible group one recent Wednesday morning when she mentioned she’d like to lose about 10 pounds, Lord willing, and that she was no good at dieting—it takes too long. A slim elderly lady walked up to her after the meeting and suggested she take up golf and the lady herself would teach her if mother was so inclined. Mother agreed. God moaned and doubled the number of angels assigned to my mother’s day shift.

Mom reads the Bible for hours, gets her deer every season, can tell you where the US miss-stepped in Afghanistan then ask you “Would you like a BLT sandwich for lunch, Honey?” She has life by the horns.

When I was 12 years old I walked into the kitchen one day while this staunch Baptist lady was washing dishes. I announced to her that no one really knew if God existed and just because a preacher said the Bible was true did not make it so. Maybe Hitler had been right, perhaps his ideas had needed time and maybe he had been a smart misunderstood man.

She put the dishes down and told me to get in the car. We drove all the way across town to the Shepherd Memorial Library. She checked out Hitler’s “Mein Kempt”, we drove back home and she handed me a dictionary and her Bible.

She said, “Read this so you’ll be informed, not ignorant. Then tell me what you think.”

To this day I have a Bible at my office, several in the house and I’m glad Hitler’s dead.

I bought a motorcycle when I was sixteen and brought it home. My father said it was a waste of money and my sister said I’d be dead in a week--- could she have my room? My mother stood there in a white shirt, faded blue jeans and white sneakers. She had never even been close to a motorcycle but she seated herself on the back and said, “Have me back in time to cook supper.” We rode all over Pitt County laughing the whole time.

She can boil and freeze sweet corn all day and still make the 7:00 prayer service at church.

With lots of grit this woman has raised three kids, advised preachers and county commissioners and taught more Baptists in Sunday school than the Devil has lobbyists. Now she is eyeing the PGA.

I take her to a driving range and show her how to hold her driver and explain the rules of the game to her. She asked me how many strikes you get at a golf ball.

“It’s not strikes Mother, “I said,” its strokes and you normally get only one at the ball when you tee off.”

“Well,” she said, looking up at me, hands on her hips, “that’s dumb. I’m taking more. Will that be a problem?”

I felt a small puff of wind and thought I heard angel wings beating—frantically.

Spring is here, smell the skunk

Nothing says renewal like spring. The grass is beginning to turn green and your car is temporarily painted Pollen Yellow. You can see places in the yard that have thinned and you make a note that soon you have to prepare flower beds and decide what you are going to put in the garden this year--- maybe some okra, carrots and tomatoes. This year we’ll plant more tomatoes.

Speaking of new growth I drove down to a medical clinic recently to have two questionable bumps on my face removed. An earlier examination found they had become aggressive, wanted more of me than they should and so they had to go. The clinic would take care of the bumps and I would take care of the co-pay.

The receptionist was nice but made me sign a paper stating nothing in my life has changed since last year (does that include my waist?) and I’m told to have a seat. I was now officially a number and joined the others in the lobby.

When you hang out at a medical clinic you get a glimpse of what life might be like later. “For better or for worse” becomes a reality as you watch old married couples. One shuffles his feet while pushing his spouse in a wheelchair. She appears to have been immobile for some time. She is thin and probably needs to be helped for even the most minor things. The man makes sure her oxygen bottle is sitting firmly in her lap as he, bent with age, pushes her through the doors to an examination room. Another couple sits in the lobby, one very animated and vocal while the other seems to be barely listening, quietly staring at the floor. The fabric of marriage has been worn by time. You see the threads that hold things together—love sewn with companionship over the years. One depends on the other and no matter who has left the toilet seat up or down, they’re in this together.

A nurse calls me in, finds a vein and fills three little vials up with liquid me. Then I’m ushered into another room and the doctor comes in. He says nice things about the weather and how the procedure will not hurt---much. He burns the cancer off of me, pronounces me fit to run the race of life and he leaves.

Then I’m let loose. They open the barn, slap me on my rump and I’m out the door and running back to home pastures. On impulse I exit the interstate and I’m in farm country with wide open fields and farm houses sitting back from the road. I roll the windows down and put on a Blues Brothers CD and play “Rawhide” with the volume turned way up. The wind is blowing my hair and I can smell fresh cut grass and feel the clean crisp air and it thrills me. I want to drive the cattle through Dodge City, shoot up the town and kiss Miss Kitty. Then later maybe check my email and Facebook for anything new.

I see a dark lump in the middle of the road and I realize it’s a dead skunk. Its spring and they are on the move-- lookin’ for luv’. I pass over him and immediately the air smells musky and fetid. The odor fills the ventilation system of the car and I wrinkle my nose and cough.

Nothing says spring like a dead amorous skunk. Love and renewal is all around and now, I can even smell it—for better and sometimes for worse.

The Devil wears fur and watches Desperate Housewives

The Devil is in my house.

It’s just before dawn and I’m writing this column using only the soft light of my computer monitor. I dare not use more illumination as it could draw attention. I’ve learned to listen for the soft click-click of paws on hardwood floor. Oh, I miss the days when I was my own man! My freedom is dwindling away little by little, like a winter day blending into a cold dark night. Like all evil, this started out so innocently.

My young son wanted a dog. As any good father would do I instructed him on the responsibilities of having a pet. He assured me he understood.

“Daddy,” he said, “if I had a dog I’d walk it an’ feed it an’ pet it an’ take care of it! I would Daddy, I understand ‘bout being ‘sponsible. Please, I wanna dog more than anything in the ‘hole world!”

Evil entered my house in the form of a puppy. She was a full blood Fawn Boxer. Her little paws were white with fawn brown fur on her upper body. Her chest was snow white and she had black around the eyes and an upturned little muzzle. We named her Roxey and we were all struck by her cuteness. And that is what blindsided my Christian faith.

At first my son played with her and fed her. Then he learned to play soccer, softball and ride a bicycle. Soon it fell to Dad to make sure the dog was walked and fed. Dad cleaned up poop, Dad paid the vet bills and Dad somehow ended up being the one with a dog. Coming home after work meant taking care of Roxey—first thing.

Three months went by then one day the Boxer chewed the bottom off of our sofa and I went ballistic! My wife picked the puppy up over her shoulder and hugged her.

“It’s alright my sweetie pie-- my good girl, yes you are-- you’re my sweet good girl!” Turning to me she said, “You should walk her more. If you did then this would not happen. You should be more sensitive to the needs of others.”

As she carried “good girl” out of the room the Boxer looked over my wife’s shoulder at me as if to say “Watch what I do to your shoes---the new pair.” The room grew cold-- I could see my breath.

The Boxer grew bigger and could do no wrong.

One afternoon Roxey managed to eat a cake that was left on the countertop. My wife thought it was hilarious. As she knelt down to hug Roxey the dog looked over my wife’s shoulder at me and for an instant I thought the Boxer leered at me with black and green teeth and then her head twisted completely around while staring at me! It seemed that the kitchen window was covered with black flies but when I started to speak everything went back to normal! My wife turned to me and said” You can run out and get a cake---- if you think you really need dessert.” She looked at my stomach like it was something you’d step on by accident.

The Boxer now claims what was my chair, naps on what was my footrest and watches Desperate Housewives from my couch. If I try to correct any of this I am met with cold stares by my wife, son and the dog. They have become the unholy Trinity.

Roxey has been watching me a lot lately. She demands longer walks; more play time and more treats. I see that she is in the room with me right now. She slipped in quietly, unnoticed and she knows that I am writing about her. She stares at me, silently, intently.

The Devil is waiting to be walked----- and she likes to be scratched behind her ears.