Ronda

Rich is the author of "What Southern Women Know (That Every Woman

Should)" and "My Life In The Pits." She lives in Gainesville,

Ga.

It appears that Mama and I have taken our last road trip together. This

has become necessary because that woman simply won't mind me. Let me

explain.

Somewhere along the road of life, we two Southern women have unwittingly

exchanged roles. It is now she who is the stubborn, unruly child who does

just as she doggone pleases despite my best psychological maneuvers which

begin with reasoning, "laying down the law," logical discussions

then progress to no-nonsense demands, firm putting down of foot before ending

with arguments that are not pretty.

After our most recent trip - a two-day foray to my cousin Dinah's

mountain retreat - I have dispatched her figuratively to her room for

somber reflection. Perhaps she will come around to my way of thinking. But

I doubt it.

Our main conflict revolves around Mama's packing. Without fail, I arrive

to pick her up to find that she has dragged several bags out onto the front

porch in eager anticipation of the forthcoming adventure.

My jaw clinches the moment I pull into the driveway and see the scattered

display. I can travel for a week with a small Pullman that fits easily in

the overhead compartment of a plane. Same when I drive. One bag. That's

it.

Mama, on the other hand, travels heavy. This, of course, is no problem for

her since she only carries her purse. Guess who totes all the other six bags

she takes? Wisely, I decided to end the conflict by buying her a small suitcase

like mine.

"It has wheels so you can handle it easily," I explained before

adding sternly, "From now on, when you go with me, you take that suitcase.

And only that one. If you don't, you're not going with me any more."

I thought that would put the almighty fear in her since she hates to miss

out on a road adventure. It worked as well as some of the ultimatums she

used on me during my youth.

That was several trips ago and she has yet to take the tags off the bag.

She persists in using a collection of smaller bags, enough that it always

takes me three trips to the car to pack them.

I am relieved, though, that she doesn't use brown Winn-Dixie bags to

haul around her nightgown like my grandmother did.

To add injury to misery on this last trip, she cooked a few pots of food

after we had all agreed that we would dine out while gone. To add salt to

the injury, she cooked things that she knows I don't eat.

"This is your last trip with me," I said, fuming.

She poked out her lower lip. "What will you say if something happens

to me and this really is my last trip?" Mamas revel in using this tactic.

"I'll say that I'm a prophet."

I know that bringing food to your host is a diva-perfect sign of graciousness.

But the point is that my mama doesn't listen to me. She's acting

just like I did when I was 16. It's terrible and somehow I must gain

control.

Does anyone know at what age your mama starts to mind?

I think, though, that I am finally beginning to understand. My mama used

to promise repeatedly and emphatically that one day I'd pay for my raising

when I had children of my own. So, I decided to outsmart both her and fate

But I'm the one who got outsmarted because I am, indeed, paying for

my raising. Mama, always determined to be right, is seeing to that.