I came from a family of talented writers. Mom sold many of her articles and had a book published when she was 69. It’s hard to believe our papa’s most common expression was, “Children are born to be seen, not heard.” Home Is Where Mom Is By Gay Wiggin Comboy

My first journey away from home was at the age of 11. It had been a long, hot summer which I had spent helping my oldest sister Lela with her new baby. I didn’t know how homesick I was until they brought me home.

I stood with suitcase in hand at the gate of the white picket fence that surrounded our house. An excitement mounted inside me. I wanted to run up the sidewalk, jump up the step onto the front porch, open the door and holler “Mama!”

Instead, I walked slowly so I wouldn’t miss any of the sights of home. The green birdbath still sat beside my climbing tree;a wasp buzzed around the large tree with our tire swing; the metal chairs and swing were on the porch for evening sitting.

The heat of the afternoon was suffocating. Perspiration made my dress feel sticky-damp. As I stepped into the living room, the air turned cool and crisp, making my wet dress feel cooler. I lingered to let my eyes adjust to the room’s darker light. The house was quiet except for the hum of Mama’s large fan sitting in the west window where the large old trees shaded and cooled that side of the house. The green tile floor shone from layers of wax, the green walls almost matched.

Even though my mother wasn’t home, the house was surrounded by the feel of her. The moment was broken when my older sister Marie burst through the kitchen door to greet me, but the feelings lingered on.

I grew up and moved to Lee’s Summit, Mo. But every time I returned home,as I drove those curvy Arkansas roads (before the new highway), the excitement mounted up in me as if I were 11 years old again.

I told Mama, “Don’t ever sell this house, so I can always come home.”

When my mother remarried she felt she had to ask permission to sell the house. Then came the day my sisters, their husbands, a nephew and I worked on the house getting it ready to sell.

After everyone left, at the end of the day, I lingered a little longer. When Mama came to get me, we walked through the house for the last time. I told her I wished I could have a couple more days to work on it so it would be in perfect shape.

Now, when I go see Mama, I always swing by to see the home place in Gravette. It’s getting older and it seems smaller, but I still remember the feeling of the beautiful home of my childhood. Then I whiz on down the road to her new home. And I realize the warmth of home is where my mother is.

Our mother lived with Gay the last two years of her life. We brought Mama back to the Ozarks for her final resting place.

Imagine how wonderful it will be when we get to Heaven and find Mama waiting for us. Then we’ll really know we’re home.

Opinion, Pages 7 on 11/03/2010