Bad Links?
Other glitches?
Notify Webmaster

Mama and discarding treasures

By RONDA RICH

“I hope,” Mama said the other day, “that I live long enough to see you write something nice about me.”

A smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, I replied, “I hope I live long enough to find something nice to write.”

I stopped and grinned. “Hey, I have an idea. Why don’t you work on giving me some nice material?”

For the record, lest you think otherwise, my mama is a good, hard-working, God-fearing, decent woman who would do anything for any member of her family, especially me, her baby. She can, though, be mighty aggravating on more than an occasional basis.

She paused to think about what I had said then nodded and flung an agreeing finger in my direction. “I’ll work on that.”

I didn’t get my hopes up. And, it’s a good thing, too, because a short time later, we were both mad and pouting about the disappearance of one of my favorite childhood books. I got it when I was 11 and since it’s now out of print, it sells for a lot of money.

I decided to get it out of the desk in my old room and take it home with me. When I opened the drawers of the little antique desk, I found nothing that belonged to me because all of my childhood treasures had been replaced by Mama’s things.

Unfortunately, this happened when I stopped by to fetch her for church one Sunday morning. After the argument that erupted, it is fair to say that by the time we arrived for church, neither of us was in a Christian frame of mind but the devil was very happy to have us representing him in the midst of the righteous.

A friend later commiserated. “If I had all the comic books and baseball cards that my mama has thrown out, I could put my children through college.”

That didn’t help my feelings.

I began to wonder how history survives memorabilia-tossing, treasure-throwing-out mamas like mine.

In the library archives at the University of Georgia is a childhood treasure to behold. It is the first story ever written by a future Pulitzer-prize-winning author by the name of Margaret Mitchell.

At the age of 11, she wrote an astounding story of a young girl named Margaret who traveled to the West and met cowboys and Indians.

Mary Ellen Brooks, who oversees the archives, allowed me to hold that tiny book in my hands and marvel at the brilliance of Mitchell’s storytelling prowess at such a young age. She hand-printed the text then bound it together in a little book. It is astounding.

But how would we know it was astounding if Margaret Mitchell had had a history-disregarding mother like mine?

Despite Mama’s best efforts to eliminate my childhood things, I do have the first story I ever wrote. That, however, is owed to the competence of my second-grade teacher, Mrs. Elizabeth Rudeseal, who packed it away and saved it until a few years ago when she sent it directly to me, bypassing my mother.

“One day, I’ll find that book you’re looking for,” Mama vowed. “And when I do, you’ll owe me an apology.”

Again, I’m not getting my hopes up or my apology prepared.

But I can’t stop thinking about Margaret Mitchell and that precious treasure at the UGA Library. All I know is we can all be grateful that she didn’t have a mother like mine.

If she had, that first little book of hers would be long gone with the wind.

[Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of “What Southern Women Know About Flirting” and “The Town That Came A-Courtin’.” She lives in Gainesville, Ga. E-mail her at southswomen@bellsouth.net.]