The very night before my mother died, she was confessing her few and petty sins to me in hopes of making it past the bar to heaven.
She began to apologize to me for the tongue lashings and severe discipline (never, ever, physical) she carried out from my cradle to that day.
I assured her that all I was and ever would be I owned to her. That she taught me right from wrong, and refused to even let me take even a step down the wrong path of life. That I deserved every tounge lashing I ever got and needed more.
But, there were some few times when I’d defy her and like all Campbellite mothers I’d ever seen she’d pick up a steel stove poker and give me the choice between doing right or doing wrong.
So as she lay dying, I asked,
Mama, would you really have hit me with that stove poker?
Her dull eyes brightened and she smiled and said
I did get that down perfectly!
You, will never know.
Then she went on to warn me not to become a drunk, as older men sometimes do pick up the bottle, in their later years.
Mama did not believe, in time outs or taking a break.