Marion and I are moving furniture in one of her upstairs bedrooms. A few weeks ago we moved everything out of there and into the attic space so that new carpet could be put down. Today she decided it was time to move it all back.

I am in the attic hunched over when the phone rings. It’s Charlie. She’s at work and Bobby has the boys. He’s taking them to a little league game. A nine year old and an 18 month old. By himself.

Caleb cannot play because he just had surgery on his right ear, but he wants to go watch. The weather is threatening rain, and Charlie has called because she’s worried that Caleb might get his ear wet, which the doctor has said it can’t get wet for the first few days. Plus, Bobby will be busy coaching, and who knows who’ll be watching Cooper.

She’s worried. She’s making a plan to leave work and take control of the situation.

Marion says to her, “You stay put. We’ll go to the ballpark and take care of the boys.”

My back didn’t mind the change of plans.

“She’s just like her mother,” Marion says to me as we get into the truck.

“How do you mean? Although I have a pretty good idea.”

You see, Marion is a take-over and get-involved kind of person, especially when she notices that things might not be done the way she would do them, which in her mind is kind of like thinking that if she doesn’t “get in there” and do it right, there’s a good chance it will all be done wrong.

This is what Charlie was thinking about the boys at the ballpark, which is why Marion hinted at the likeness between her and her daughter.

Ya follow me?

I don’t mean to make Marion out to be a bully. She’s not the kind of person who forces her way on you. In fact, she’ll stand back and watch, and she’ll let you do it the wrong way if that’s what you really want to do. But she will fidget, pace, and even wince a little bit as she watches.

Take for example the loading and packing of the truck when we’re getting ready for a trip. In my mind, there are multiple ways to load suitcases and gear into the bed of a truck that might work. As far as I know, there are no set rules. One method might be just as good as another. The goal is to get everything in there, and as long as you get it all in there, the process of loading is a success.

When we were getting ready for our fishing trip back in March, Marion was pressed for time to get everything ready. She worked both Monday and Tuesday. She was volunteering at the church all day on Wednesday. We were supposed to leave at dawn on Thursday.

We were talking on the phone Tuesday evening.

“I’ve got everything sorted and stacked in the kitchen and in the garage. I just don’t know when I’m gonna get it loaded in the truck. I’ll have to do it in the dark after I get home tomorrow night.”

I have done this with her before. The flood lights on. Her holding a flashlight in her mouth so both hands are free. Dog tired after a long day. Her up in the bed of the truck. Me standing by ready to hand her something when she asks for it.

I offer my solution. “I’m coming up tomorrow afternoon. If you’ve got everything set out, there’s no reason I can’t load the truck and be done with it before you get home.”

I could hear the silent wince on the other end of the line. Her eyes squeezed tight. Her mind struggling against that strong will of hers.

“I hate for you to have to load it by yourself,” she says.

“You don’t trust me to load it right, do you?”

“No. That’s not it.”

“Good. I’ll let you know when I get to the house.”

When she got home Wednesday evening, the truck was loaded. She had a million questions. She needed to know if I got the pots and pans. She asked about the coolers. She worried if I had remembered the minnow buckets, batteries, fishing rods, chairs, and her life jacket.

“It’s all in there,” I told her.

But I could tell that she was still unsettled.

“Did you leave room for the suitcases? We’ll have to get the suitcases loaded in the morning, ya know.”

“Yes. There’s room for the suitcases.”

She’s looking at me with her lips pressed tight. I can see the rubber band winding up inside her brain.

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll trust you.”

We loaded our suitcases the next morning and headed to Jenkinsburg to pick up Joe and Romona. We both knew that we’d have to rearrange a few things in order to get their stuff loaded. The extra bags and gear would force us to make efficient use of space.

We backed into the driveway, got out and walked to the rear of the truck. I went to get up in the bed so they could hand stuff up to me, but I got body checked by a 5 ft. 4 in. woman who got up in there ahead of me and who started handing me stuff out of the truck.

“I thought we were loading, not unloading,” I said.

Without even looking at me she says, “We are, but I’ve gotta move this stuff around to get everything organized so it will all fit.”

“You don’t like the way I packed it?”

“It’s okay,” she says as she rips out tubs and boxes and bags by the dozens.

Marion is a problem solver. She sees all this stuff in the back of the truck like a jigsaw puzzle. Every piece fits in one exact place. I’ve seen her pack in three or four pieces, stand there analyzing the exact shape and size of each piece, rip it all out, turn one piece 180 degrees, then put it all back. And she will do this three times before she’s satisfied that it’s done right.

I can tell you this much, when we got ready to leave Florida and head home, I didn’t even offer to get up in the back of the truck. Me and Joe just smiled and handed her things when she asked for them.

So, we’re riding to the ballpark when Marion throws out that comment about her daughter being just like her mama.

“You know what I mean?” she says.

“You mean like when I loaded the truck without you being there?”

“You have no idea how hard that was for me.”

My manhood is not offended that she prefers to be in charge. She’s not the boss of me. She often reminds me that I’m not the boss of her, and I gladly accept that she’s fiercely independent. I wouldn’t change her for the world.

From now on, she loads the truck.

Besides, it’ll be easier to get it done right the first time.