I Remember Ma

Our old black and white Zenith introduced me to many great times and interesting people. Among my favorite shows when I was a child were "You Asked For It," "You Are There," "The Ed Sullivan Show," "The Jack Benny Program" and "The Buster Brown Show."

But there was another program, one I particularly loved. It came into our home accompanied by the sound of percolating Maxwell House coffee. Then, as slender feminine hands opened and began leafing through a family photo album, a soft, smooth woman's voice began recounting memories of her father and brother(s). Then, dropping her voice to a special tone of love, she says, "But most of all, I remember Momma."

Neither I, nor my sisters Rosemary and Priscilla, ever called our mother "Momma." Our familiar form of the word mother was, and has always remained, "Ma."

When I remember Ma, the glow that engulfs me is one of sincere unconditional love, safety and comfort.
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I am perhaps eight or nine years old. Summer is getting old and dusty, its afternoon heat lacking the strength to hammer the asphalt as it did in its youth. When it does muster strength, the heat causes updrafts and the clouds gather and grow in height and breadth.

Ma calls my two younger sisters and me in for supper. The bright sunlight is softening, diffusing through the gathering blankets of moisture. I look up at the immense, gathering thunderheads as I climb the porch stairs, feeling the breeze quicken and cool.

While I'm in the cellar lighting the old copper water-heater, the storm strikes. The first crack of thunder is a great rifle shot -- a quick snap-crack-bang followed by a deep reverberating base note that shakes the foundation of the house around me. I run up the cellar stairs to the kitchen.

Ma is scurrying around slamming windows shut. "Run upstairs and close the bedroom windows!" she says in the commanding tones of a captain whose ship is about to encounter a hurricane.

I scurry upstairs and out onto the yardarms.

Ma's room has only one open window. The sheer curtains are blowing inward and twisting like torn sails. I slam the wooden framed window screen closed, set it on the floor and pull down on the window. It won't budge. Years of old paint re-enforced by humidity swollen wood, hold it tight in its track.

The first sheet of rain hits the outside pavement with a sound resembling marbles being poured out onto a hardwood floor. I jump, grab hold of the top of the window and let my whole weight fall. The window releases with a snap and swishes closed.

The bathroom contains a single, brand-new window that slides obediently and smoothly closed.

By the time I get to my room, the rain, wind and flashes of lightning are putting on a spectacular show. I bounce across my bed and slide off the other side. The floor is wet with small puddles. The windowsill is soaked. The wind blowing into my face smells of wet leaves and recently oiled pavement. I shut and lock the window, wipe the sill with my hand producing a loud, rubbery squeak and run downstairs.

The front door is open. I walk through it and onto our large covered front porch (Ma calls it a "veranda"). Ma is sitting in the old wicker loveseat leaning forward with her elbows on her thighs. I step out onto the porch just as the sky lights up with a bluish flash which instantly silhouettes all the trees and houses in the neighborhood. I run to the love seat and snuggle in close to Ma and my sisters, managing to arrive just before the low, distant rumble of thunder.

"Did you see the dragon?" Ma says.

We looked at her quizzically.

She points to a large tree across the street and whispers, "Keep your eyes on that tree."

The four of us watch the tree obediently, not knowing what to expect.
Then it happens: a quick three-flash strobe is fired from the heavens. Rose screams. Priscilla buries her head in Ma's shoulder. I stare, dumbstruck. For an instant, the tree is no longer a tree. It is a huge and menacing monster with two large flaring nostrils, a high eye socket and jagged scales as big as spearheads. He's looking away from us, over his shoulder, up the street.

"Wow!" is all I can say. Rose laughs, then squeals with delight and relief. Priscilla keeps her head buried in Ma's armpit.

For the next 30 minutes we watch as a menagerie of animals, monsters and cartoon characters come to life in the neighboring trees.

As the storm retreats, Priscilla slides into Ma's lap and drifts off to sleep. Ma begins singing about a man who had a goat. I ask her about the red shirts that that old goat coughed up and flagged the train with. Ma patiently explains that all trains have to stop for a red flag. I vow to remember that important fact.

Rose asks Ma to sing the song again. I rest my head on Ma's side and can feel the words of the song vibrating within.

The thunder is far away now. We sit cuddled together listening to the rain. I feel nicely warm and comfortable.

The love that Ma gave must have been indeed great for I still feel it. Today, whenever the lightning causes the world to appear in silhouette, I somehow feel safe. Between the flashes, in the black and quiet of the night heavens, I can see her smiling. In the rumble of the fading thunder I hear her singing: "There was a Man. O please take note. There was a man who had a goat..."