Diplomacy

World leaders should get to know my mother.  She should run the UN, the USA, and probably the world.  She can get almost anyone to do anything and she can make almost anyone get along with anyone else.  She’s a born leader, and the most successful diplomat I’ve ever encountered.

My mother had four children by the time she was twenty-six.  My daddy was a tenant farmer who worked long hours, and was too tired and too disinterested to pay much attention to what went on in the situation room at home.  When war broke out between or among the three oldest of us, she had a battle plan ready.

For verbal squabbles, which usually arose over the daily chore list, she used sewing thread.  Yes, sewing thread.  I preferred the shiny turquoise spool, while Ernie liked army green.  Ken always favored red.  If we couldn’t resolve the issue of whose turn it was to empty the trash or feed the chickens, Mama would calmly direct the loudest protester to bring the thread.  She eyeballed. a length, usually about a yard, snapped it off with her teeth, and said, ‘Hands out.”  One kid’s left hand, though not mine; I’m left-handed, and a brother’s right hand.  She tied one end of thread to each child’s outstretched wrist.

“Ok, now empty the trash.  Together.  If you break the thread, you get spanked,” she said.

It’s amazing what two children can accomplish when they’re tied together and petrified of the belt that hung in plain view, practically jumping off the hook, ready to smack our bare behinds.

What if my mother could get the Speakers, theMajority leaders, and the Senators from each party, tie their wrists together and threaten them with something scary, like losing a pay raise or a pension if they didn’t get a budget ready by a certain time.  I’m willing to bet Mama would get results, and that the  thread-linked individuals would eventually cooperate towards a common goal.  Should I write a letter to the President?

When it comes to fistfights, rock throwing or bullying within the family, Mama had a stockpile of secret weapons.  Her favorites were the empty cardboard tubes that wrapping paper came on.  My brothers were wiry and strong.  I wasn’t.  If I needed to duke it out, usually with Ernie, my mother would hand us each a Hallmark tube, send us to the back yard in full view of her kitchen window, and go at each other like  medieval knights.  The harder we hit, the more battered the tubes became.  I swung for his head, the tube disintegrated, and we collapsed onto the lawn, laughing so hard we forgot why we were angry.  I’d call that expert foreign relations.  War was averted.

Rolled up newspapers and boxing gloves were reserved for more serious disagreements, but even then, the bouts in Mama’s backyard ring usually dissolved into laughter.

Today, my mother is in her late seventies, still wise, still very much a diplomat, and still in posession of the best sense of right and wrong I’ve ever seen.  My brotthers and I are in our fifties, and we’re fast friends.

Mama, you deserve the Nobel Peace Prize.