Rick Bragg, author and journalist, once said that at a certain point he realized that one of the most important things in life was “going to see your mama.”
Before the airlines treated people like prey and airports became high security fortresses, I would often decide on an impulse the night before to catch an early morning flight to see my mother. I usually made it a surprise. I would get up early on a Saturday morning, take the nearly empty streets of the City to LaGuardia, stash the car in long term parking, check-in. A few hours later, after driving a cheap rental car from Tampa International to St. Petersburg across the Howard Franklin Bridge, I was sitting at mother’s dining room table. “You’re skin and bones,” she always said, “Let me fix you something to eat, boy.” Before I could answer what was not really asking for permission, a large plate of grits, eggs, bacon, ham, accompanied by a bowl of hot biscuits with jam and other preserves, were sitting in a semi-circle before me. Carrie Lee Fulwood was legendary for her cooking. She wouldn’t join me eating, just looked at me with careful examining eyes for signs of health or trouble.
I always felt, like it was the very first time hearing it, especially good when she would say, “I’m so glad to see you.” I would joke in response with a line I stole from one of my favorite uncles, “I’m so glad to see me too!” We would have a big laugh. For a split second, it would feel like my childhood when my uncles and aunts and cousins came to the house in Shiloh for Sunday dinner or holiday barbecues. Laughter ruled the house.
Mother’s table for me looked like it was set for a house full of people. But the formality of the settings was as comforting as it was familiar. As I ate, she would have her series of questions. On airplanes so much, was I eating properly? How was her grand-baby? Was I staying out of trouble? (“And don’t you lie to me.”) Was I going to church? Did I find another wife yet? When was I coming back? Are you sure you’re not still getting into fights?
Invariably, she would bring up Daddy, whose Homegoin’ was long gone, and how she missed him. “Your Daddy was a good man.” I revered my father. She knew that I knew that already, but it didn’t matter, she always memorialized it, with fervor. When I finished breakfast, she would start cooking dinner and supper. (Although living in Florida for many years, she never did break the old South Carolina custom of calling “lunch” dinner, and “dinner” supper.)
I would move to her kitchen table as she cooked. And she talked. About years gone past. About how everything had changed. About, remember, don’t bury her in South Carolina, “Lawd, no” (we didn’t). She didn’t cook with much salt anymore, Dr. Rose’s orders. She didn’t miss it. I could always use the Red Rooster hot sauce on the table. Mr. Myson had to close his garage. His mind was going bad. Her knees were bothering her more now. Especially when the storms were coming up.
On most visits, I had to be back at work in Manhattan by Monday morning. But no matter how long I stayed, when I started to leave she would say: “You leaving so soon?” Going to see my mama made me feel like I was somebody all over again. The short visits were tender. Fiercely protective, she was also prone to fussing, “for your own good,” the longer the visit lasted. Old habits. Still, it was always hard to leave that house yet again, gazing at mother’s oval eyes and peanutty-brown skin, sometimes tears on her high cheek bones. I would always call her from New York when I landed. She would be in good spirits again, irrepressible as ever, never forgetting to tell me, “I was so glad to see you.” I was so glad to see her too.
