I know everyone says it, but my mother is special. She is funny and every bit a lady, but she is also as tough as anyone I know. She is small, but you don’t want to cross her. She has been widowed twice and seen things that might break weaker women. Life has swung at her hard more than once, and she just keeps swinging back. I think all that she has been through has just made her determined not to let life beat her.
Oddly enough, one of my first memories of my mother has to do with Count Chocula cereal. Count Chocula is a General Mills product that is made of cereal, marshmallows, and imitation chocolate. When it is mixed with milk, you basically start the day with cereal, chocolate milk, and lots of sugar. It had the same effect on kids as energy drinks have today. Get the kids wired, then send them off to some teacher who isn’t making nearly enough to put up with them. Now I understand why there was so much cigarette smoke in the teachers’ lounge.
I was introduced to Count Chocula at a preschool/daycare called The Honey Pot. I’ve always thought that was an odd name for a childcare facility. Sounds more like something you’d find on Bourbon Street. My mother worked at The Honey Pot for several years when I was young. She was also a teacher’s aide in the public school system. Neither of these jobs would be considered places where you worked to get rich. She would get up before the sun came up, get dressed, get me dressed, and we would head out. Mama probably saw more sunrises than most fishermen. One of my earliest memories in life is sitting at short tables in small chairs while it was still dark outside, eating Count Chocula. In my little kid’s mind, I thought it was awesome. We didn’t eat Count Chocula at home. We stuck with the basic lower-cost Cornflakes, and occasionally Snap, Crackle, and Pop would join us at the table. Breakfast at home typically consisted of stuff that could be prepared in mass quantities to feed three boys. Pots of grits, scrambled eggs, and whop biscuits (the canned biscuits you would hit on the edge of the counter to open and make everyone in the kitchen jump) were staples. On cold mornings, I remember my dad making cinnamon sugar toast. It was white bread with pats of butter, and on top of this, there was a generous sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar. Then he’d put them in a gas broiler on the bottom of the stove. The broiler was nice because not only did it make the best toast ever, but it took the chill out of the air in the kitchen. I still make this sometimes for my girls; we call it “Pop toast” after my dad. So Count Chocula was a treat. It cost more than the grits and eggs and wouldn’t last as long. I felt special because I got to go eat Count Chocula before any of the other kids arrived at daycare. I was too young to understand ideas like sacrifice and hard work. I just knew my mama made me feel special.
Now, as an adult, I realize that those Count Chocula mornings were never really about cereal. They were about love and sacrifice. My mother wasn’t there before everyone else because she was a morning person, or even because she knew I liked the cereal. She was there working at an underappreciated job, potty training kids, and wiping runny noses because our family needed it to make ends meet. My mother worked as an assistant teacher and at the daycare. My dad was a history teacher. Even today, schoolteachers in Mississippi rank at the bottom or near the bottom in pay. Apparently, the high-paying jobs go to essential people like insurance claim denial specialists. To put it mildly, our home was not flush with cash. Most months, the money ran out before the month did. Back then, you learned real quick the difference between wanting something and needing it. Three boys go through not only a lot of food but also have a lot of other expenses. We played almost every sport (except the communist ones like soccer). That was a time when parents still believed fresh air and dirt could cure most childhood problems. We were given piano and art lessons. We went on every church trip. In the summer, I remember driving down to Pensacola for the day and getting water blistered and driving home that afternoon. Some of my favorite memories were summer trips to Atlanta to see the Braves play. My dad usually tried to work it so that our trip would allow us to see the Cincinnati Reds play. Johnny Bench was my guy. We would go and watch not only the game but also get there early enough to watch the teams take batting practice and warm up. I loved it. My oldest brother, I think, liked it as well. My middle brother, who now lives in Atlanta, hated it. He wasn’t a baseball fan. It was torture for him.
All these things I mentioned cost money. Money that we didn’t have for all these extras. So this takes us back to The Honey Pot. It’s still dark outside, and a chunky blonde-haired kid is filling himself with Count Chocula because there is a mother there who was willing to do whatever it took to see that her boys had all they needed and most of what they wanted. Nobody called it sacrifice then. It was just what mothers did.
Yes, I think my mama is special.
Enjoyed this story? Subscribe to The Notebook and receive new stories and reflections delivered right to your inbox.
Leave a Reply