So, One Fine Oklahoma Sunday ...

The Mom Bomb

.... .. my Father hears our family van pull into the driveway of our house.  But he's surprised to see my Aunt Mary Jane get out of it. Just as he's asking her where my Mother is, a bright, duck yellow Mustang convertible pulls in.

Out hops - well, "gets" - my Mom.

With a huge grin she tells him "Dewey, look what I won at Cherokee Bingo".  All those weekends of tribal support had suddenly paid off in a big way.

Dad gasps like a beached catfish for a second and then replies "Well, you can't keep that! That's the Devil's car, you won that gambling! Maggie, you have to give it back!"

Mom's reply is terse - "I'm keeping it."

According to my niece, in residence at the time, those were the last words they exchanged directly for a calendar month.  Meals became torturous affairs with dialogue like...

"Ask your grandmother for the biscuits, please".

"Tell your grandfather they're right on the table where his lazy arm could pick 'em up".

"Tell your grandmother ...."

Poor Robin damn well went crazy.  She learned a lot about people, I will say that.

Brush Creek Church - where Mom is buried

So after a month of this, one fine Oklahoma Sunday, getting ready for church, my Father comes down the stair and tells my mother ...

"Well, I guess we can afford the excise tax" - which, of course had been the issue that had immediately jumped to his mind ....  

... which leads to the only reply that could possibly come ....

"Don't worry, honey.  I already won the money playing Cherokee Bingo".

.... and she reaches into her amazing purse, pulls out a wad of cash big enough to choke a Cherokee buffalo.

I was honored to drive that car in her funeral procession, right behind the hearse.  People in the Cherokee hills lined up along the road, off and on, all the way up to Brush Creek Church, where she is interred, in Kenwood.

I can't tell you how proud I am to be my parent's child - most of the time because I can't quite figure out why.  But I am, by God.

Portland