The ErmaFest

ErmaFest! That’s the name my brother Tommy came up with. And it fits.

Several months ago, my sister and favorite brother-in-law sat in my den and we began to tell stories. As always, it didn't take long before the primary object of many of the stories became my mother, Erma Shields. You've heard some people described as “people who make news'? My mother made stories. They seemed to breed wherever she was. She was a story incubator. Sometimes she was the teller, sometimes the subject, but never the spectator. She was always involved.

As the evening went on, we realized that twenty-plus years after her passing, there was an entirely new generation of her ancestry that had never had the opportunity to meet her or know her well, and who had never even heard many of the stories we were enjoying. So we decided to do something about it. And on the day before Mother's Day, we scheduled the ErmaFest. We would have a meal and invite family, friends, neighbors, and associates from her school teaching days. As the price of admission, attendees were asked to either bring a story they were willing to share or to bring a question about a story they had heard. And most did. But those closest to her enthusiastically did the most telling and the new generation was pretty much relegated to the roles of listeners and learners. It was hard to tell who had the best time.

The star of the day had to be Wayne Parker. Wayne was a young teacher when he began his association with my mother. She never became Erma to any of her workmates. She was always Mrs. (pronounced Miz in true Southern tradition) Shields. Wayne was always her strong right arm when she was at school. I’m not sure that she viewed him more as a friend or as a son, but I was always glad that she never had to make a choice between keeping Wayne or me. I could have been in trouble. With people like Wayne and Virginia Williams, I was privileged to hear a few stories that I had never heard before.

Wayne told of the time that an assistant superintendent of the school system sent out a directive to all of the teachers regarding professionalism. Unfortunately, the letter must not have been proof read and went to the distribution of more than 100 teachers with an undiscovered spelling mistake. Most people would not embarrass one of their bosses with something so trivial. Most people were not my mother. Wayne said, “out came the red pencil. She circled the error, assigned a ten-point deduction for the mistake, signed her name to the paper, and returned it to his office. We waited for the explosion. We never heard a word”.

Memories like this usually stir other memories of a related nature. My sister quickly followed with another story of a time when a friend had sent a note of some sort to my mother…likely a ‘thank you’ note…that also involved a spelling inaccuracy. Erma did not play favorites - not even to polite college graduates. Out came the red pencil. The paper was graded and returned. The offender was amazed that anyone took spelling so seriously. Erma was a teacher 24 – 7. Another lesson taught. Another lesson learned.

But the thing I enjoyed the most about the day was when one of my nephews, now 28 years old and who had known my mother only briefly, told his parents how functions like this had led him to understand how important family and heritage is and how he had come to appreciate it. That was my definition of success for the ErmaFest.

And that’s how I will remember it.