But she was the driver other drivers prayed they'd not have to share the road with, for she crept along at the dangerous speed of 45 mph, and traffic kept piling up behind her; because of the hills and curves, there was little chance of anyone's passing her.

One day coming home from Winona, I saw a long line of cars creeping up Smith Hill. As I got closer I saw the driver was a little old lady in her dark green Plymouth, bravely blazing the trail. Like a long colony of giant ants, all the other drivers could do was follow.

Now this was the era of the expansion of Interstate highways.

Knowing how Mama greatly feared city traffic on those rare occasions when she had to go to Jackson or Memphis, we were surprised at the excitement in her voice when she broke the news:

"Well, guess what?" By her tone, we knew the news was big. "They've finished Interstate I-55 as far South now as Vaiden!"

Somewhat puzzled, I asked what that had to do with her. "I thought you HATED and would certainly avoid driving on the freeway!"¯

"Oh, I do! I won't be driving on it. But, with it finished, the other traffic will be using it and leave MY highway alone!"¯

That was my Mama.

One day Mama called me to come over for lunch. When I got there, her two small dogs met me at the front porch with a hearty welcome.

Later, I wondered why Mama kept getting up, going out front, then coming immediately back; even as we were eating, she'd push her chair back and go to the front porch, then return and take up her fork.

Finally, I asked her why.

"Well, last night those two stinking dogs kept me awake all night, barking! So I'm fixing them! I'm not letting them take any naps today, if I can help it. Every time they go to sleep I go out and, with the toe of my shoe, I prod them awake. And I figure if I can keep it up all day, there will be sleeping tonight for everybody."

Yes, sir, that's my mother.

One day Mama went out to the mail box and saw a thin paper envelope with yellow and green airmail stripes around the edges. She rejoiced in the fact that it was from Linda, my sister who lived in South America.

About the time she put her hands on the letter, she looked down and saw a snake lying in the shade beneath the mailbox.

Now a letter to Mama from Linda was always a tonic written in ink, with an almost illegible hand. And it would give Mama a chance to take a break from working in the garden; she could sit and read and fan herself with her old straw hat.

Keeping her priorities in order, she told the snake, "Now, snake, I'm going to the porch to read Linda's letter, and if you know what's good for you, you better be on your way, because if you're here when I get back, I'm gonna have to kill you."¯

Evidently that snake took her warning to heart and departed.