here wasn’t much to do in Warner Robins, Georgia in the early 70s but ride around. So that’s what Mama and I did. And once in a while, we’d find adventure.

During my pre-school days, we tooled around in a butter colored Cadillac that was sometimes stocked with vodka and orange juice. I sat on the armrest in the front seat, biting at the air rushing from the vents. This was before child seats and air bags —but I was safe ’cause I knew the Mama Arm of Steel would protect me.

Our greatest adventures involved chain gangs —crews of convicts that worked by the road. No, we never slipped anyone a blade in a homemade cake — or even provided a getaway car. But what we did was just as thrilling.

When we’d happen upon these crews we’d rush to the nearest convenience store and buy cartons of cigarettes for ’em. We might have been broke, but Mama was never cheap. She bought the best brands: Marlboros, Kents, and Winstons.

My job was to break up the cartons so that we could hurl the packs out the window. Timing was crucial, as the men had to snatch the cigarettes before the boss man, and his shotgun, could intervene.

Mama would floor it once we were sure contact had been made. Through the back window I saw the prisoners smile and hoist the packs high above their heads, as we left in a cloud of red dust.

By the time I started kindergarten, our family had unraveled. Mama and Daddy had drunken fights that left her black and blue. She eventually had a nervous breakdown.

No matter how bad things got though, I knew I was loved. Every night Mama would say, “I love you the most.”

I’d respond, “No, I love you the most.”

Times were dark after the divorce as well. For years Mama worked in a shirt factory to pay the bills. A high school dropout and single mother at the age of sixteen, she never had many choices. But she made sure I did.
The guards don’t allow her to throw cigarettes to the convicts anymore, but she’s found plenty of other folks to help. And now she doesn’t have to worry about work. I’m glad.

Instead she spends the daylight hours in her flowerbeds. She calls it her therapy. No wonder she has the most beautiful butterfly garden and amaryllis collection in Laurens County.

Every Mother’s Day I mean to thank her for giving me so much more than she ever had. Somehow I’ve never gotten around to it. Maybe this year I’ll write her a letter.

I’m not sure how it will go, but I know how it will end—

“Mama, I love you the most.”