DATE: Sunday, May 11, 1997                  TAG: 9705110052
SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B1   EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA 

TYPE: Column 

SOURCE: Paul South 

                                            LENGTH:   63 lines

A MAMA'S BOY - AND DOGGONE PROUD OF IT

I'm a mama's boy.

I don't mind saying that, even though some folks would consider me a candidate for one of those trashy afternoon talk shows.

But I believe, if you took a poll - secret ballot, of course - you'd find that there are more of us out there than you might think.

Bill Clinton, I know, is a mama's boy. I saw him cry when he lost his mom to cancer. And when he was inaugurated the first time, the way he looked at his mom, you could tell. Hillary will never get a gaze like that.

Charles Barkley, too, is a mama's boy. I've known the ``Round Mound of Rebound'' for 16 years. He may talk trash on the hardwood and in the press, but when Mom's around, he's a solid citizen.

My guess is, Dennis Rodman is no mama's boy but he does borrow her clothes from time to time.

And a lot of our local politicos are mama's boys, too. They won't admit it. But they talk about their mothers a lot when they speechify and talk to the media.

There's no shame in loving your mama. And we all have our own reasons for it.

There's not enough space in a year's worth of papers to list why I'm so fond of mine. But here are a few:

My mom cries at sad movies. She cries at sad songs. She cries when Auburn and the Braves lose. And she cries when someone she loves hurts.

My mom worked long hours so that I could go to college. After my dad died, she worked two jobs to help my sister go to college, too, and to make ends meet. In a few weeks, she will retire. My wish for her is that when her last workday ends, she will let others do for her.

My mom makes great pot roast and corn bread, and sweet tea, and fried okra and lemon icebox pie.

My mom owns a ``Hootie and the Blowfish'' album. I don't. All right, my mom is cooler than I am.

My mom took me to a WVOK ``Shower of Stars'' show in 1966. I saw Paul Revere and the Raiders, The Lovin' Spoonful, Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels, Neil Diamond, and Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs, just to name a few. My mom got a migraine.

If life were like baseball and our station in life were based on the number of errors we've made, I'd be the equivalent of a bat boy in the Mexican League. And my mom would still say she was proud of me.

Mom has mended broken hearts and broken limbs, skinned knees and hurt feelings, ailing bank accounts and stuffy noses, without a second thought. She's typed more research papers than all the Ph.D.'s at Harvard.

I love the way my mom botches song lyrics. For example: Peter, Paul and Mary's ``Leaving on a Jet Plane'' is ``Leaving on a Jet Train.'' Moms aren't perfect, but neither were the saints.

Mom knows the healing power of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup in the winter, and lemonade and ice cream on the broiling days of summer.

When my dad died, Mom worried more about everyone else, even when you knew her heart was shattered. She is the most gracious person I know.

When I was 4, I got my first pair of crutches. Mom said, ``No one else in the neighborhood has those. That makes you special.''

And my mom, along with my dad, taught me what it means to be part of a family, to love unconditionally.

Dang right, I'm a mama's boy. KEYWORDS: MOTHER'S DAY

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