CHAPTER TEN

Lordy, Lordy, Look Who’s One Hundred-y

ON SISSIE’S ONE HUNDREDTH BIRTHDAY, we celebrated with a luncheon at Martha’s house. Martha had recently relocated to a new patio home after selling the place where she’d lived for more than forty years, and by the time Sissie’s birthday rolled around, the family, I’m happy to say, was almost fully recovered from the Moving Martha project. There’s probably no need to share all the Moving Martha details—and besides, if I did, I’m pretty sure YOUR HEAD WOULD EXPLODE.

Suffice it to say that after David’s brother, Scott, and sister-in-law, Rose, had worked tirelessly to get the details of the real-estate transactions squared away, the actual move started with Martha asking David if he could install a phone line in her new garage—HER GARAGE—and ended with Martha asking me to make phone calls about a four-piece wrought-iron patio set from Target, a stepladder from Home Depot (but not with wide steps! not with wide steps!), and a large, two-door Rubbermaid storage container that “you can buy for less than $80! It’s less than $80!”

David would tell you that the Moving Martha experience changed him in ways he will never be able to articulate. He would also tell you that he need never hear the word sconces again.

Precious family memories, people. Precious family memories.

Since Sissie was living in a nursing home when she turned the big 1-0-0, we initially thought that we’d have to go there to throw her birthday party. But over the course of that spring her health improved, and we were thrilled when the head nurse gave her the go-ahead to spend her birthday at Martha’s. That Sunday morning David and Scott went to the nursing home to pick up the birthday girl, and I couldn’t help but picture the three of them ditching the party and heading off on some sort of Cannonball Run-ish road race. You know the drill. David and Scott would trail for three-quarters of the race, and at the last minute Sissie would knock one of them out of the driver’s seat, take command of the wheel, and then lead them to a stunning come-from-behind victory.

Apparently the subpar comedies of the early 1980s left a deep and lasting legacy in my heart.

I’m looking at you, Rhinestone.

Fortunately Sissie made it to Martha’s without staging a vehicular coup in order to overtake Burt Reynolds and Dom DeLuise, and her hair held up just beautifully in the six whole minutes it had to endure the wind and humidity. Once they were all inside the house, David and Scott moved Sissie, who was in her wheelchair, to the dining room, and the rest of us took turns telling Sissie happy birthday. Martha was concerned that Sissie wouldn’t be able to see or hear the person talking to her, so whenever someone would speak to Sissie, Martha would say something along the lines of “YOU HAVE TO YELL A LITTLE! YOU HAVE TO YELL A LITTLE! HOLD ON! I’LL TELL HER!”

And then: “MOTHER! IT’S ROSE! IT’S ROSE! AND SHE’S HERE FOR YOUR BIRTHDAY!”

My personal favorite moment was when my mama walked over to Sissie, leaned over, grabbed her hand, and said, “Sissie? This is Ouida. Happy birthday!”

And then Sissie said, “RITA?”

And Mama said, “No, it’s Ouida.”

And Sissie said, “RITA?!”

And Martha said, “YOU HAVE TO YELL! YOU HAVE TO YELL!”

And Mama said, “IT’S NOT RITA. IT’S OUIDA!”

And Sissie said, “Oh. Hey, Ouida. How are you?”

A few minutes later I asked Martha if I could take her picture with Sissie, and she said, “Oh, yes! Oh, yes! But just keep in mind that this isn’t my real jacket; it’s my cooking jacket. It’s just my cooking jacket!”

I’ll bet you a dollar to a donut that Martha’s cooking jacket came from the Stein Mart petites’ department. And as a brief side note, I would just like to ask you to please take a moment to really absorb the fact that my mother-in-law owns a jacket that is specifically reserved for cooking.

Thank you. Your life will be all the better for it.

The birthday meal was sort of a late brunch, which I guess you’d just call, you know, lunch, but we had brunchy food: breakfast casserole, hash brown casserole, fresh fruit, rolls, birthday cake, and ice cream. We also had a pineapple-and-apple casserole that Martha had bought at her church’s fall festival and then put in the freezer, but she was sixteen kinds of nervous about serving it since she didn’t know who had made it. The situation made me laugh because, well, there are always two or three people of questionable culinary ability in every congregation, and there’s no doubt in my mind that if I had thrown out one of those iffy names as the hypothetical chef, Martha would have dumped that casserole down the disposal and never looked back.

You can’t be too careful! You just can’t be too careful!

A few minutes before we sat down at the table, Rose and I were putting ice in the glasses when Sissie very suddenly yelled, “HELP! HELP!” and nearly scared us to death. Fortunately she was sitting only about six inches away from us, so Rose leaned over and said, “Sissie? Is everything okay?”

“Oh, everything’s fine,” Sissie answered. “I just wanted to make sure y’all remembered I’m here.”

Sissie yelled, “HELP! HELP!” one more time during lunch, and again, it was just to make sure we were giving her the attention she deserved. She had no cause for concern, though. I think on some level every one of us knew it was the last time we’d share a meal with Sissie sitting at the head of the table, and we all wanted to give the day the honor it was due. It was incredibly touching to see Martha’s dining room chairs filled with four generations of family, to sit back and take in the fact that there was a ninety-four-year gap between the oldest and the youngest person present. Every once in a while the six-year-old, Alex, would pop out of his chair to give the one-hundred-year-old a hug and a few pats on the shoulder, and it was a gift—a gift—to see them together. I didn’t know my great-grandparents, so I’m extra grateful that Alex understands the joy of not only knowing his great-grandmother but also adoring her—and having full confidence that the feeling is entirely mutual.

After lunch Sissie topped off her meal with several huge scoops of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla ice cream. Rose and I kept waiting for Sissie to say that she’d had enough, but she’d finish one scoop and immediately ask for another. I think it must be all kinds of wonderful to celebrate your centennial birthday and enjoy a bottomless bowl of ice cream while your daughter, grandsons, granddaughters-in-law, and great-grandchildren remind you how much they treasure and love you. That has to be one of those “blessings all mine, with ten thousand beside” moments, you know?

Once Sissie polished off the last of her ice cream, we all wanted to take a few more pictures with the birthday girl. Martha mentioned that she had a little something for Sissie in the next room, so Rose and I adjusted Sissie’s jacket while Martha assured us, “This will only take a second! Just a second! But I just have to have it! Have to have it!” as she walked down the hallway.

Martha was holding a nosegay of hot-pink roses when she came back to the dining room, and as she handed it to Sissie, she leaned down right next to Sissie’s ear, and in her most gentle whisper-scream, she said, “Mother? Mother? These flowers are for you, sugar. They’re for you! Now hold these flowers, Mother! Hold these pretty flowers! Hold these flowers and let us take your pretty picture! Pretty picture!”

Rose and I were a little puzzled about why the flowers were such a big deal to Martha. They were a thoughtful gesture, and they definitely matched Sissie’s hot-pink jacket, but Martha’s enthusiasm for the flowers was off the charts. Right about the time I was going to ask why the flowers were of such Critical Picture-Related Importance, Martha started talking to Sissie again.

“Hold the flowers, Mother! Turn them just a little bit toward me! Oh, that’s perfect, sugar! Just perfect! I want you to have your flowers so we can take your picture and put it in The Myrtlewood Tribune and everybody will see my beautiful mother holding those beautiful flowers! Every beautiful mother needs some beautiful flowers! And you are—well, you are just the sweetest mother in the whole wide world! The sweetest and most beautiful mother!”

When Martha finished her explanation, Sissie looked up at her with the faintest glimmer of tears in her eyes, and she smiled. In that moment, those two were a living, breathing portrait of the sometimes ineffable affection between a mother and her child.

And Martha was right. Sissie was, at least in our family’s opinion, the sweetest and most beautiful one-hundred-year-old to ever grace the pages of The Myrtlewood Tribune. She established a legacy that will ripple for generations, and she didn’t have to yell, “HELP! HELP!” at her birthday luncheon to remind us of that.

We knew it then.

We know it now.

And we will never, ever forget it.