It was a Friday. September 13, 2013.

The day had likely begun pretty much the same as any other September day, but to be honest, I don’t remember that much about it; probably the morning rush and grind of getting everyone to school and work, minimally tempered by Friday’s anticipation of the weekend.

Ah…but I’m getting ahead of myself. You, dear reader (if you’re there), need more background to understand the significance of this event. Up to this point in “Notes From Camp Kitsch,” I have written mostly about my father, a red-headed (originally) Southern Baptist preacher known affectionately to his flock as “Brother Haley.” My mother, my relationship with whom I can most generously refer to as “complicated,” was a character in her own right. I will defer discussing Bertie’s “complicatedness” for another writing, as much of it is not integral to this particular story.

Being thrust into the role of “the Preacher’s Wife” was not what my mother had envisioned for herself when she fell in love with my dad, a pipe-smoking railroad worker. Nonetheless, after he was “called” to the ministry, they married and she took up the mantle, dutifully portraying the epitome of selflessness, humility, and decorum. She once told me, “Why, I was such a young lady, that when the preacher at our wedding pronounced us man and wife, I turned my head so your father would have to kiss me on the cheek!”

Always conscious that she and her progeny were being scrutinized by Dad’s congregants, she constantly reminded us that when seated, especially in church, one’s knees (assuming one was of the female variety) were always to be touching, especially when wearing a dress or skirt, so that not even the Holy Spirit could peek between them. Once I made a rather interpretive drawing in Episcopal kindergarten that came home with a note from the teacher, prompting Mother to admonish me, “We don’t draw pictures of naked people. We only draw pictures of people with their clothes on.”

In light of this ongoing and rigorous training in modesty, it may come as a surprise that Mother never gave me “the talk.” For the record, it had not been strictly necessary, as the “S” volume of the 1970s World Book Encyclopedia on the olive green bookshelf in our living room had a quite enlightening, though technical, description of the mechanics of coitus, which I enthusiastically shared with my elementary school classmates, to their horrified disbelief. Learning the correct anatomical terms for male and female genitalia gave me a sense of power and control over my own body, and took away the veil of mystery Mother had created with terms like “down below” and “heinie” and “tally-whacker.”

Years later, with my own children, I was determined that this cycle of shrouding the body in mystery would be broken, and so my husband and I made it a point to refer to all body parts by their actual names, instead of the cutesy, made-up names favored in polite society. When we visited my parents with the grandchildren, Mom would laugh nervously whenever she heard a tiny voice say “vagina” or “penith” (still a little cutesy because of the slight baby-boy lisp).

The kids, always keen observers of attitudes and human nature even from this young age, picked up on the anxiety these words generated in Memaw; the almost-involuntary simultaneous clench of jaw and fist, and the visible cringe of distaste which caused a slight hunching of her shoulders.

In light of my own childhood, I thought it best to address our parenting choices directly with her. “Mom, we don’t use baby words for body parts. We want the kids to be clear about the names of all their parts so there is never any confusion created by referring to a part with a made-up name.”

She seemed rather offended at first, less so at the idea of a seven-year-old referring to her “down-below” as a “vagina,” than at the perceived indictment of her own parenting; but she took it in grandmotherly stride. Eventually, it became part of our family lore that Memaw would not say the word “vagina,” preferring instead the amorphous “down below,” and when pressed for further definition, “You know…(whispering)…your butt.”

So on September 13, 2013, when I received the most hilarious voicemail ever left by my mother, explaining that she had used the heretofore dreaded lady-bits term “vajohnna” (as pronounced in her meandering Southern drawl), thus finally conquering her inability to refer to her nether regions as anything more explicit than “down below,” I was more than a little curious as to what interaction could have brought about this radical departure from the preacher’s-wifely propriety that had always surrounded any mention of the private areas of female anatomy.

I called her back. The phone rang twice and she was already laughing hysterically when she answered. “I just had to call and tell you that I finally said ‘vajohnna’ instead of ‘down below’.”

Giggling incredulously, I said, “Mom, what in the world? Who were you talking to?”

She proceeded to tell me the story of her ongoing bout with chronic candidiasis (TMI, I know, but stay with me here) for which her doctor had prescribed compounded boric acid in vaginal suppository form because she was unable to take Diflucan (an oral antifungal medication).

When she received the compounded boric acid, the instructions on the label simply read “Use as directed.”

Now Mother had a devilish streak a mile wide and relished every opportunity she was given to chide, squelch, or otherwise demoralize someone. She was well aware that “as directed” usage did not include ingesting the boric acid suppositories, which could have been fatal, but she called the compounding pharmacy and asked the pharmacist what would happen if she swallowed the medication. The poor pharmacist, beginning to panic, said, “Mrs. Haley, those are meant to go in your vagina.”

“I KNOW they’re supposed to go in my vajohnna, I just wanted to make sure YOU knew they’re supposed to go in my vajohnna, because the directions sure as HECK don’t SAY to put’em in my vajohnna!!!”

That poor man!! THREE vajohnnas in one 30-second conversation with a belligerent 80-year-old woman.

Here’s to Bertie, who is probably rolling in her grave as I hit “publish” on this post. The Queen is dead. Long live the Queen.