YELLOW PLATES & MASHED POTATOES

In her latter years, my mother did not need to be encouraged to “season her words with salt.” She did it, and did it well.

But in spite of this tendency, I only heard her use a so-called ‘four letter word’ twice. 

Once, when her grown grandson walked into her house sporting a rather large tattoo of Jesus on his arm. The other time when she “got wind” that we were considering placing her in a nursing home.

 

While I don’t recall mama’s exact phraseology in the first example, above, I will never forget the second.

“I ain’t going to no damned nursing home!”

Did I say it was a four letter word? Sorry, I guess it was six.

And as to her oath to avoid a nursing home at all costs, you’ve read that old Biblical phrase?

…“And it came to pass.”

However, in spite of mama’s tendency to avoid curse words, and her closing admonition in her short biography to “be sweet,” she was often opinionated and rather difficult to “deal with.”

She hated the color Yellow, and she wouldn’t touch Mashed Potatoes. And as a result, I once laughed and told her that I expected her idea of hell would be to eat mashed potatoes off a yellow plate three times a day.

One time I walked into her room at the nursing home, and my mother “started right up” with one complaint after another. And I exclaimed, “Negative, negative, negative.” 

To which she replied,

“Well, if you don’t like it, get outta my room!”

That day, and many days following, it was difficult to decide whether she or me was a captive audience.

More times than not, I offered my mother a bit of grace, as I could only imagine spending the majority of my waning days confined to a 10x10 room, and deprived of the comforts of home.

After all, I may, ultimately, find myself in the same condition.

by William McDonald, PhD. Excerpt from (Mc)Donald's Daily Diary. Vol. 83. Copyright pending