Where to begin? There was a time, not too many years ago, where I sat with a friend on an apartment patio in a small Texas town. The gathering that brought us together had dissipated through the course of the night as revelers made their way home. The few left had grown quiet and content, the way folks will at the end of a weekend get-together, and it was at this point that my friend and I made our way outside to sit and have another beer. There, in the solemnity and peace that so often accompanies late nights in central Texas, he began to tell me a story:

My friend – let’s call him Juan, although that is not his name – grew up pretty rough. His mother was a prostitute who had been in and out of jail a few times in his life, and he was raised in a precarious existence. He knew and had connections with gangs and other criminal elements that come with being raised in such an environment, and it was safe to say that Juan was very streetwise. Streetwise enough to pull my ass out of the “fires” I created at local bars and parties on at least a couple of occasions. He is a huge guy, and has been so since his teenage years. That being said, he is one of the nicest and most polite guys I’ve ever known. He’s now married and with children of his own. And although it’s been at least a couple years since we’ve talked, I see him on Facebook often with his wife and kids. He’s found gainful employment and attended college, and I have always been incredibly impressed with him as a man. But this night, as he continued his story, he told me about some of the rougher parts of his raising, including when, at 13 and in defense of his mother, he had to take the life of a “suitor” of hers that was treating her roughly. He told me this with tears in his eyes, and as he finished he segued into a piece of wisdom that I have never forgotten. He’d been to my house to visit a couple of times by this point I think, and he began to talk to me about my home environment. I’ll paraphrase here, as it’s been a few years since the conversation: “Barron man, you don’t know how good you’ve got it. I’ve been to your house. I’ve felt the warmth of your family’s home. I’ve heard the sounds of your mother yelling from upstairs for her kids to finish the kitchen. Seen her as she came by to check on all of us as we sat on the back porch hanging out. Spoke to her as she took the time out her day to welcome me and the rest of your friends into her home. Thanked her as she ensured we all had a spot to sleep for the night. You don’t know man. Don’t ever take it for granted. Don’t ever take for granted the love that your home has – that your mother has. Because it matters.

It matters.

So – today is Mother’s Day, and I know most of you reading this will find yourselves in the same spirit as I am. Today is a time to remember our mothers. To search the deep waters of time and find the sunken treasures of the past. To see the ones who birthed us in pain and raised us in love and give them the honor and dignity so befitting of their station. It takes time to consider all they’ve done for us. And what’s more, I think it’s becoming to recognize them as more than the iconic figureheads of our youth – to see them as they really are. Real women, with feelings and hearts and hopes and dreams, who gave themselves daily to their children. Doing their best to love selflessly.

So, what can I say about mine? Well, she’s the mom that kicked my butt as a kid when I got out of hand, and kicks my ass at trivia games now. She’s the wife who, after earning her master’s degree, worked as an eight grade math teacher while her husband finished school and searched for work – all while raising their first child.  She’s the disciplinarian that, as children, would hug us after we were punished so that we would know that true discipline is borne out of love, not anger. She’s the caregiver that raised five kids next to her husband of some three decades, and the teacher who gave thirteen years of her life to homeschooling us because she believed in the importance of learning more than just the standard. She’s also the stateswoman that sent us to public school after setting us up for success because she believed in the importance of following a calling – and spreading one’s wings. She’s the instructor that taught me how to read at such an early age that I was reading thousand page novels by the time I was nine – and enjoying them. She the sage that taught me the importance of humility and wisdom over simple knowledge (a lesson I learned the hard way, many times). She’s the fighter who battled depression valiantly, and came out the other side with a stronger faith and a deeper knowledge of herself. She’s the sacrifice that gave her whole life to her children, only to watch as a couple of us made some extremely some stupid, painful, and heartbreaking decisions. And she’s the angel that picked us back up, dusted us off, loved us, scolded us, and prayed us back to life again, and again, and again. She taught us the importance of history – to this day I can expound at length on both the history of Texas and of our nation – and how to draw lessons from it. She’s the career counselor that gently suggested I should be doctor or lawyer and yet gave no complaint when I chose to be a soldier. And she’s the patriot that allowed two of her sons to join the military in a time of conflict, while many ushered their sons into safer and more stable vocations. She’s the leader that spent many years in the public sphere working tirelessly for the state and for the people whose ethics and values she believed in to her core, all the while raising five kids over a ten year spread of age difference between oldest and youngest. And then, leaving her work to the next generation, she’s the educator who moved proudly back into the teaching sphere at the high school that my two youngest siblings attend.

Is there more? Absolutely. Her legacy is endless, and there are future days to be added yet. She’s cub scouts and birthday cakes, church and Christmas gifts. She’s iron will and yard work and chores and driving lessons and homework and hospitals. She’s family and friends and funny memories. She’s back yard garden patches and homemade costumes. She’s New Year’s Eve pot banging and Fourth of July Fireworks. She’s gunshot wounds and stitches and blood and mud and emergency rooms. And she’s first dates and first loves and first broken hearts. She’s college and kindergarten and employers and first jobs and God and country and starry Texas nights. She’s misty eyed goodbyes and tear filled homecomings. She’s football games and baseball games and lunchtime picnics. She’s beaches and museums and zoos and laundry. She’s homemade chili and long distance phone calls and broken bones and history lessons and prayers and hopes and dreams and sacrifice. She’s everything a kid should have, and a mother to many more than just her own. She’s the keeper of the spirit. She carries the flame.

She keeps the home fires burning.

Happy Mother’s Day to Melinda Susan Determan Fredricks.

From North Of The Home Fires.

Up here.