Little Barbados welcomed 2014 with a blaze of fireworks, telling the world we’re still alive and kicking. Little did we know . . . .
Putting the mother-in-law into this column was a stroke of pure genius. Maybe it struck a chord with suffering sons-in-law everywhere. I don’t know. But she remained by far my most popular creation. From peasant to past illustrious Governor General Sir Clifford Husbands, the first question has always been: “How’s your mother-in-law?”
I first met her in 1969 when her daughter Frances came to work at the Ministry of Agriculture. Frances’ intended was still at UWI in Trinidad as was her younger sister. After work she and I would often sit outside their home in Hastings until her 6:30 dinner deadline.
Sometimes a bowl of tuna casserole was sent out for me to take home. I would polish it off at a gulp. The fish was being baited but he didn’t know.
In the Christmas holidays, I met the younger sister, only to be told she already had a well-connected Trini beau. All her armour was in place but after a few tentative dates, I found the proverbial crack. Thereafter I got to spend evenings in the home and occasionally to sleep over on the drawing room carpet, the girls in well-guarded seclusion.
Seeing the mother-in-law-to-be in action was a revelation. Her three children were all Barbados scholars but she lost her beloved husband at an early age with two of them still at college. Overnight she moved from factory manager’s wife to provider for her family.
She epitomized Bajan traditional thrift and industry at its best. Every evening while watching TV, she’d be decorating baskets for sale to tourists. Her daughter’s suitor soon found himself making raffia flowers on a little device with prongs sticking out.
And so she would continue for the next 40-plus years. She never stopped working. Making dresses, quilts and what-not, baking quiches and coconut breads (the best ever and that’s no idle boast), growing ferns and other plants, she made a dollar wherever she could. No one could hustle more raffle tickets. And she became our official cow manure salesman.
Meanwhile she kept firm control over her children. In the courting days I had to get her daughter home by 6:30 p.m. lest she “get air in her belly”. On the night we got married, she presented us with a thermometer for “rhythm” birth control. Alas, there were no instructions and whenever I put it in the most logical place, the lively lass’ Irish blood was roused and required something much more substantial to satisfy it.
The mother-in-law provided Saturday food for every weekend of our 38-year marriage with enough extra dishes to last until Monday. When she wanted grandchildren, she plied me with sea-moss. In recent years she’s also sent down a big soup and tuna casserole every Tuesday.
But she was also the ultimate party animal. She would sing a few waltzes and then call for something hot. Thus was born the legend of Madame Toola Roola, as Richard Gale dubbed her, rocking back and pelting waist-line to make Alison Hinds blush.
On Saturdays she and I would needle each other incessantly. She’d hide my slippers if I left them around while I’d upset her by eating ice-cream off the same plate I’d just had rice and stew. Then I’d hold a ten-inch piece of black pudding suggestively and she’d roar with joy.
She lived life to the fullest, eating whatever she wanted, dancing and working with her crafts and plants. On New Year’s Day evening she wasn’t feeling well and spent the night at an emergency medical centre. By afternoon she was back baking mince pies. That same night, however, she took in again for the last time. She would’ve been 90 on April 1.
The mother-in-law was not unique. She did what Bajan mothers and wives have done for centuries. We need only to rekindle that spirit to conquer
any crisis.
Last Saturday night, the sister-in-law stayed at our place. Finally I was getting to sleep between the two sisters. The lights went out. Then a voice to my left said: “I don’t think Mummy would approve of this.”
A voice on my right agreed. I slept on the divan. The mother-in-law still rules.
Gonna miss her tuna casserole, though.
•? Richard Hoad is a farmer and social commentator. Email [email protected]
