(Originally published November 14, 2007)

If you grew up on a farm in the South like I did, you understand why some of the ladies are as tough as the men. It was, and continues to be a hard life, despite the advances in agricultural science and technology. Back when most farms were still family ventures, the wives were as important to the operation as were the men, just as they are in today’s more advanced farming businesses.

For the farm kids it was also a hard life but one that most of us would not trade for any other. My brothers and my sister and I worked harder than many kids our age but part of the reward was having thousands of acres of farm and woodlands as our playgrounds when we weren’t working.

We played in the woods, in the barn and in the swamps. The tool sheds and chicken coops made wonderful forts and sailing ships for little farm boys with big dreams and bigger imaginations.

Sometimes we would also play under the house. Back then old farm houses were built up off of the ground allowing plenty of room under them to explore and to occasionally hide from Mama if it became necessary.

I’m sure that Mama spent whatever time that she wasn’t doing farm work or housework either watching us, looking for us, or wondering where we were. And, even when we did try to hide, she was always able to locate us without much trouble.

I think she had kid radar.

There were times when I was sure she worked as hard as Daddy did but still had time to look after us.

I’ve seen her driving tractors, picking and hoeing cotton and wrestling those beat up old peanut and cotton trucks to the gin houses in town. Yet she somehow still had the time to cook three full meals a day, every day.

One day she showed us that she possessed another skill that we had never witnessed before.

She could shoot like Annie Oakley.

Daddy taught all of his kids to shoot the rifle at an early age and I guess he taught her too.

One day while we were playing in one of the side yards near a pig pen, suddenly a huge rat appeared near the fence. It was the biggest one I had ever seen before or have since.

It was as ugly as a mud fence and as big as a beagle.

That rat just stood there by that fence eating something, probably a pilfered egg from the hen house.

We all ran to the house and told Mama to come see the huge varmint. She took one look at it and went to get the .22 rifle off of the shelf where Daddy kept it.

Now the pig pen was probably a good 30 yards from the back porch and when Mama came out of the house with the gun that nasty thing just kept munching and paid us no attention whatsoever.

Mama stood on the back porch, took careful aim and with one shot to the head, sent that rat to his reward. We were all so excited we ran out there and grabbed it up by the tail to bring it and show it to Mama.

When we got back to the porch Mama was standing there with tears in her eyes, crying over killing the rat.

It may have been the first time that I was ever aware of the combination of toughness and tenderness that is so vital, and is an absolute requirement in a successful Southern farm wife and mother.

Mama had it. The toughness that it took to kill an egg hunting rat and the tenderness to mourn it’s passing.

Mama had both. That’s why she’s Mama.

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He lives in Shell Bluff. Email Don at Livelycolo@aol.com.