Momma

Saturday morning at 8:44 a.m., the day before Father's Day was the day we never wanted to come. My mother was dead. I don't care how long the "goodbye" is, you are never ready for your mother to die.

My sister Dixie, her caretaker and friend for the last six hard-fought years, called me and said, "She finally quit fighting just a few moments ago."

She was an incredible woman. Born in 1924 to a family of five brothers and two sisters, half Native American and Irish. At 83 years, she outlived them all. She was the last Walker of the line. She served in WW II in the United States Marines, long before it was fashionable for women to be in the military service. She met my father at Ft. Benning while on TDY, married him, got pregnant, left the Marines, he left her, then she came home and raised her family. I never had a father, not even a bad one. I never needed one; she was man enough!

I knew what Semper Fimeant before I could talk. I could sing the Marine Corp hymn before "Happy Birthday."

She raised four boys and a daughter by herself. Oh, she married five times but never found a man that could live the life she expected of them. None of them stayed around more than a few years at a time. She married two of them just to keep the Welfare Department from taking us away to be wards of the state. She kept us together the only way she knew how. She fought for us every day of her life. She spent years working on a dairy farm, in a garment factory, taking in ironing, and I never remember her having just one job.

We were dirt poor and we never knew it. We raised all the vegetables we ate and shot the meat we had. I was raised in a sharecroppers shack on a pecan plantation in Fontainebleau, Miss. until I was in the eighth grade and we moved "into town" further west on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. In the winter we collected all the newspaper, cardboard boxes and any type of paper we could, soaked them down and stuffed them into the cracks of the house to keep the freezing cold out. In the summer we poked it all out to let in what breeze there was. The house had three rooms, a living room one bedroom and a kitchen with a hand pump in the sink for our water. We paid six dollars a month rent and I remember many time Mr. Ridiack coming to collect and we were three months behind. It was a hard life, but she make it fun for us all. She took endless photos of us and as I watched her beauty fade into heavy lines of age, I marveled at how she never tired of working to keep us together.

I left home when I was a junior at Long Beach High School. I lived

with other people, finished High School, got a college scholarship to play football, went to college, married and had my own children.

She was a hard woman, not even her own sons could live up to her expectations, and we all left her home in our mid teens.

She was so busy keeping us in school, clothes and meals; she never had time for herself.

Today, it is amazing to me how she lived her life totally for her children. Never once did I ever remember her doing anything for herself, nothing. Not ever a new dress, an ice cream cone just for her or a day to herself. Born into a religious family, she was a PK, preacher's kid. She saw to it that we never missed a Sunday in Belle Fonatine Baptist Church, or even a Wednesday night prayer meeting. She did not always go herself, but she made sure we were there.

She could out cuss a sailor, but never drank and despised the people that did. She would smoke every now and then, but I never remember her ever buying a pack of cigarettes. She was a strong disciplinarian. She never spared the rod, or even a pecan tree limb if we deserved it. Today, what she did to us when we were bad would be considered child abuse. Yet every one of her children grew to adulthood and became fine people, with manners and social graces. We knew the difference between right and wrong and learned that hard work is an honorable life.

Like so many women of her day, she made her contribution to society through her children. She mothered another US Marine that served four tours in Viet Nam, was wounded, came here to Pensacola to recover from his wounds, joined the Air Force and went back into that horrible war. Years later, I learned that the reason he went back so many times, was so that his brothers, all draft eligible, would never have to go into a war zone. He did it because she asked him to, and he was his mother's son.

Another son joined the US Army, went to Korea, both of them served their country well.

Another son became a wealthy businessman in his own hometown and the eldest was a border

line fool! Her daughter married a fine man, had a large family and made her mother proud.

In the end they became fast friends as daughters and mothers should. As for me, I cross the border every chance I get. She lived to see me as a regular performer on the World Famous Grand Ole Opry and three days before she died, my sister sat beside her bed and read my first book "Who's Your Bubba" to her aloud and they laughed together. She was the mother of a President of the United States Jaycees, a President of The National Freedom's Foundation at Valley Forge, a President of the Alabama Professional Speakers Assn., two decorated military men, two successful businessman, athletes, politicians, college graduates, 17 grandchildren and 33 great grandchildren!

Her kind is gone, never to be seen again. I will now call my two sons and tell them that Grandma "B" is gone. They both visited her often and kept in touch in the last few years. They know what "tough" is and I don't think they learned it from me. We will lay her in the ground and sing her favorite hymns, but we will never forget her indomitable spirit. America is a better country because of her, she was one of our "Greatest Generation," but more importantly, she was my mother. After you read this, if you can, call your momma. I sure wish I could call mine.

Just thought you'd like to know...