Roadmaster

Mama's cars always smelled of spearmint gum. It was if Trident had been responsible for manufacturing the interior. Trident, I think, was her gum of choice. In church, she would always open up her purse — which also smelled of spearmint — to reveal a nice collection of those colorfully packaged Trident rectangles. (Of course, in church, it always seemed as if Mama would push the Tic Tacs to keep us occupied, because, I think, although they made more of a ruckus with their maraca-like shaking [she always pulled them out during a quiet portion of the sermon causing several white-haired heads to turn around slowly], at least we wouldn't pop bubbles with them. I suspect, too, that she enjoyed making the heads turn.)

In addition to the aroma, a box of Kleenex was always a constant fixture in the back window of Mama's ride - which was the typical I-am-a-grandmother Buick Roadmaster, or in the recent years, Cadillac.

Ruston's KPCH or "The Peach" was station of choice preset on her car radio. Always. The sounds of Patsy Cline trickled out of the speakers.

Although she was a terrible driver, Mama loved to drive. She loved having her own car. And when Papa decided that it was time for the two to share a car, she was pissed. PISSED. I think she even said that.

She was so pissed, in fact, that she never quite got over it.

Since that fateful day Mama has gotten her revenge on a regular basis. She of course will claim "it was an accident," but the gleam in her eye says otherwise.

One day, as I was shooting some hoops in her driveway, Mama came rolling into the carport. She got out, looked around, and then pointed. The front right underside of the otherwise immaculate machine was bruised - dented and scraped. She smiled. "Don't tell Papa," she said, adding that he probably wouldn't notice until he went to wash the car.

Then, of course, further supporting A. my belief that Mama was out for revenge and B. The universal fact that when people get old they just don't give a fuck anymore especially when it comes to lines, there was the Kentucky Fried Chicken incident.

Mama and I were in the drive-thru line at the local KFC, pre-KFC days when "Fried" was still a socially acceptable word. Mama expressed that she did not want to wait in line anymore - and what in the world could the car in front of us have ordered? My goodness, she said.

Then, she hit the gas pedal.

We hit the bumper of the car in front of us, causing it to bounce forward a bit and us to bounce back. The woman in the driver's seat turned around.

Mama waved, with a smile.

The woman turned back around and drove off.

I remember being perplexed that the woman did not get out of the car to inspect, or even to shake an angry fist. She just drove away. Perhaps, she too was pleased with a bit of damage?

I was also shocked that Mama acted as if bumping into the car in front of you was normal drive thru line behavior.

She pulled forward and placed our order.