Widdle and I like to take his mother out to eat on Sundays. She has a passion for a particular Chinese buffet, which suits us fine.
She always has her hair done and wears a nice outfit, lipstick and earrings. I like to claim a table near the buffet, because a woman born in 1924 shouldn’t have to hike a mile for sesame chicken.
Last Sunday, as I slavered over my second plate of steamed dumplings and broccoli, she chatted about politics, which always gets her dander up. My conversation was limited to “Mfwp? Urk!” which is all one can say when one has dumplings stuffed in each cheek.
Suddenly my MIL—let’s call her Billie—patted her lips with her napkin, smiled brightly and said: “It seems like the older I get, the more hell I have in me.”
I tried to say, “Billie, you’re a hoot!” but with dumplings packed back to my tonsils, all I could do was choke and weakly wave my fork.
She raised an eyebrow at Widdle and said, “Dear, your bride is strangling.” And that was all she wrote. Widdle went to pieces and so did I, once the dumplings went down. A dozen heads turned to look at our tumultuous table.
And Billie? She batted her lashes and sipped her egg-drop soup. Butter wouldn’t have melted in her mouth.
The moral of the story is this: Two words you will never hear together are “Billie” and “boring.” She’s the sort of spunky woman who speaks her mind, goes her own way and does her own thing, thank you very much.
Twice widowed, she’s lived in the same house for 55 years. When I heard this before I met her, I imagined—God forgive me—a character sketched by Truman Capote, a Southern belle surrounded by ominous, ancient oaks and moldering mementoes of a bygone age. (My mind’s eye is nothing if not clichéd.)
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Billie is a thoroughly modern gal who watches CNN avidly, whizzes through crossword puzzles and stays abreast of interest rates and the stock market. She helped Widdle’s dad operate a logging business and later divided her time between South Carolina and Florida. She’s survived open heart surgery and ovarian cancer. Last year, at 84, she wanted a new car, so she drove to the dealership and bought one.
She likes to talk about her childhood in Georgy, which is how she pronounces Georgia, mainly because it drives Widdle wild.
“Billie, you know it’s Jor-JUH,” he said, as we drove to Summerville last week. “Jor-JUH! Not Georgy.”
“Meh,” Billie said. “I wish this restaurant had fried okry.”
A couple of squirrels used to feed just outside her kitchen window, gorging on pecans and berries. One day, while washing dishes, she saw a much larger squirrel attack the others and chase them clear across the yard to the goat pasture. She called me and said, “There’s a new sheriff in town.” (Later, because the new squirrel meted out harsh punishment to all comers, she dubbed him The Judge.)
You absolutely never know what’s going to come out of the woman’s mouth. My only wish is that at 85, I have half as much hell in me.
Julie R. Smith, who will be completely cuckoo at 85, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.