I Always Been Glad

A Tribute To Jean Etta Ford

My Mama sent me a birthday card some years ago, and for the first time I saw age beginning to creep into her razor sharp intellect. Her once flawless penmanship showed signs of a shaky hand, lines once symmetrically perfect now resembling limbs of an autumn tree. Words once precisely inserted as though typewritten now occasionally slid below the lines. In the birthday card she sang my praises, and there it was – the first grammatically incorrect sentence I had ever seen my mother write in over forty years. “I always been glad that you were my Son,” she wrote. I was struck by the error, because Mama had always been such a gifted and talented writer.

I never gave a thought to the illusion of perfection that Mama was to me. Precise in all her faculties, abilities, insights and functionalities, most loving kids don’t think of their parents as vulnerable. At the top of their game, parents know everything, solve every problem, provide every need, and protect from every harm. But there it was. She was still her sharp, keen-witted self, but that was no slip of the pen. It was God’s way of letting me know that however imperceptibly – Mama was getting older. Then came other signs, like driving as though the speed limit on the freeway had been reduced to 15 mph. Or repeating herself. Initially I rebuffed these occurrences as accidental, but then she slipped and fell, injuring her hip. Then came the stroke, which didn’t leave the normal paralytic signs, but affected that part of the brain which converts thoughts to words. Mama knows exactly what she wants to say, but cannot construct the words in her brain into intelligible sentences. A prisoner to her own neuropathology, words, thoughts, ideas, impressions and opinions trapped inside a vibrant, expressive, resourceful and insightful mind cannot be expressed. She writes incessantly, filling yellow pads with disjointed thoughts, some of which can be interpreted by my siblings. Yet she puts together thoughts and still tells me of her undying love for her children. She doesn’t always get our names right, the order of things or who did what, but that grammatically incorrect line in that card told me more than she has been unable to say these past five years. Grammar doesn’t matter. Love covers.

I recently wanted to share something with someone who would just listen to my ramblings. I couldn’t tell my wife because she would want to fix what didn’t need fixing. Nor siblings, who covet opportunities to instruct the “baby boy.” Then it dawned on me for the first time in five years… I thought I no longer had Mama to turn to. Listening was one of her best qualities, though her insights were timelessly on-point. But I can still talk to her – and she still listens with an ear that seldom if ever judges, a heart of limitless compassion, and a spirit with a special connection with God. I don’t need her to give answers anymore. She lived a life replete with answers to questions I didn’t even know. I’ve deprived her of the gift of listening. Sorry Mama – I’ll do better.

And so from Patsy, Butchy, Carol and Judy, Peter, Terry, Keith and Darryl:

I Always Been Glad That You Are Our Mom

Love Forever,

Darryl