A Trip to Mother’s House


(Writer’s Note: My mom died several years ago. To commemorate her December birthday, here is a column written while she was still living in Bowie, Texas.)

It seems no matter how old you are or how important your worldly prominence, there is no better reward than a trip to Mother’s house. For you see, Mom remembers you the way you were as a child. Her heart harbors memories of all your secrets, doubts, defeats and joys. She remembers where you got that mark on your knee and how you were afraid of the dark. Your mom cradled you in her arms and her dreams, long before you became what you are today.

Mom is still your defender, champion, and admirer, no matter what your boss, spouse, or friends might believe or say about you. Against overwhelming odds, she will fight for your cause and endure in the simple fact that you are her beloved child. Mom will believe in you and trust your word, regardless of what the evidence might indicate.

My mom, Pearlie Caussey, lives in Bowie, Texas. Now as you may be aware, Bowie is not exactly the Mecca for Eternal Enlightenment or hub of worldly excitement. But Mom lives there, which in and of itself is a reason for prominence on any state map.

At my mom’s house, I’m no longer just an average, middle-aged, single, schoolteacher. I become a person of importance, whom Mom regards as wise and without vice. A man who has triumphed over adversity, accomplishing much in his life.

Mother’s Kitchen Takes Us Back To Childhood

Just the aromas in her kitchen, with a fragrance of sugar cookie smell, are enough to start a journey back through time. An adventure back to an era where baseball was the court and Duke Snider was the king. A time when you rode your bike when and where you pleased, because your community and neighborhood were safe. There was never a worry or care about a drug overdose, but a real possibility of a stomachache caused by too many Sugar Babies and green apples. Heroin could not be purchased anywhere, but Butter Fingers were always prominently displayed on store shelves. A movie cost a quarter and popcorn was a dime, and a handshake was as good as any written contract.

Most of these events have passed, or no longer exist, except the feelings our mom has for us. Like the Pyramids that hold back the Egyptian sand, Mom stands as a human beacon, illuminating what has made America the great country she is today.

I guess one of the main reasons I like going home is because of the way Mom makes me feel about myself. Mom makes me feel so important. Oh yes, she is opinionated and verbalizes it on occasion, yet in her presence I feel honored and loved.

A good example of this is how she always tells me how thin I look. It doesn’t matter that you could put cameras on me and fly me over the Orange Bowl because of my girth. She feels I could always eat a little more. “Have another helping of cream gravy, honey!”

Mother listens to me, brags on me and always treats me with respect and honor. It is no wonder that while on the cross, Jesus turned to His Apostle John and asked him to take care of His mother. It is easy for me to understand a request like that. How could you not care about a creature who loves you unconditionally. The Greeks called it Agape Love. Isn’t it wonderful?

All Things Will Pass Away

Someday there will be a sunrise and our moms will no longer be here to drink in the majesty. Because in the natural progression of life all things will pass away. When that day comes, the heavens will not be as bright, spring winds won’t be as fresh, and each step will be a little heavier. Therefore, I make this pledge. I pledge to spend as much time listening to and sharing events with my mom as I possibly can.

It won’t be long now before my journey to Mom’s will start. I can already smell the pork chops cooking and visualize her friendly smile, as her voice says, “come on in son, its good to see you and have you home again.”

She says these things as she reaches to kiss my forehead.

Durhl Caussey is a syndicated writer who may be reached at this newspaper or dcaussey@sbcglobal.net.