THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1996, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, May 12, 1996 TAG: 9605120149
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
SOURCE: PAUL SOUTH
LENGTH: Medium: 61 lines
Before his death in 1983, the legendary Alabama football coach Paul ``Bear'' Bryant made a commercial for a local telephone company. The pitch closed with the gruff old coach staring into the camera.
``Have you called your mama today?'' he asked. ``I sure wish I could call mine.''
The last sentence, South Central Bell officials said at the time, was unscripted. An ad lib that came straight from the heart of the weathered warhorse.
Even the Bear loved his mama.
That's not really big news. There is a mystical bond between children and their mothers. It begins the moment the doctor says ``You're pregnant,'' and never really ends.
Everyone has a favorite story, or collection of stories, about their mom. My favorite comes from 1972, the week Auburn played Oklahoma in the Sugar Bowl.
Mom and I were walking through New Orleans' French Quarter. From one of the doors along the street emerged a man with shoulder-length raven hair and a beard to his waist.
``Hey lady,'' the man said. ``You know where I can get a good comb?'' Then, as if on cue, a small bird flew from the man's hair. Mom practically dragged me up the street, my chin dragging the ground.
Moms are always in the middle of stuff like that. They are there to hold your hand on the first day of school. They are around to stay up all night when you have a stomach virus, and are throwing up all over creation. And, in the grand painting of life's experience, they are there the first time you see a bird fly out of a man's head.
But moms are also there for the hard times. When she was 19, Mom and my 20-year-old dad learned that their firstborn, by divine intervention or acquiescence, would be different. But even in stress and heartache that would shatter some marriages, they persevered. Love makes you do that.
Thirty-two years later, my father would die as any man would wish if he had a choice, in the arms of the woman he loved. In the arms of my mom. And in the eight years since the April night his heart gave out, my mom has lived life with strength and grace.
And of all the remembrances I have of my mother, one in particular stands out. At 9, I was scheduled to have surgery on both legs, an operation doctors said would make my legs better. But even with that promise, surgery was a scary proposition.
That day in the doctor's office, as I was stretched out on the examining table, I saw a tear creep out of the corner of my mom's eye. But with a gentle touch, she stroked my hair and said, ``It'll be all right, honey.''
And it was.
I've thought of her often in recent months. I've thought of that tear, that touch, those words.
``It will be all right, honey.''
And it will be.
Have you called your mama today?
I'm sure glad I can call mine. by CNB