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.
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