It doesn’t matter how old you are, mom will always be mom, watching out for your best interest and making sure you don’t stray from the straight and narrow.

Sunday I celebrated Mother’s Day by taking my mother to dinner and then planting flowers for her in the sweltering heat while still dressed in my church clothes. Nothing says I love you mom like sweating up your Sunday-go-to-meeting clothes.

I was reminded, with mom standing behind me pointing out where the flowers were to be planted, that you’re never too old for your mom’s advice. A perfect case in point was just over three years ago during a trip to Daytona Beach, Fla. I took mom, along with my two sons and another relative, as we accompanied a bunch of my friends to a condo there. Mom hadn’t been to Florida in 60 years so I figured, being the good son that I am, that I would take her along. What could go wrong?

Now, let’s keep in mind, at the time of this trip, I was 50 years old and mom was, let’s say, somewhere in her 80s. Many of my classmates from the class of ’83 already have grandkids so, while 50 isn’t ancient, it also isn’t young either.

Okay, let me start with a confession, so feel free to judge if you must. Being that we were at the beach and it was July and very hot, I decided to buy a six-pack of Land Shark beer. I figured it’d be relaxing to sit out by the beach at night with a cold one and watch the surf come in. So, I bought it and put it in a small cooler which I placed in the back of the fridge in our condo, hidden behind the condiments and stuff like that. I know. It sounds like I was a teen-ager or something but I didn’t want to upset the applecart. Well, it got upset anyway.

The following day I’m walking the beach with my buddies when I get a call on my cellphone. It’s my oldest son Jack who, at that time, was 17. He could barely contain himself, laughing along with his uncle, who was 18 at the time.

“You’re in trouble,” Jack hissed over the phone, his uncle cackling in the background.

“What?” I asked innocently.

“Granny found the beer,” he announced, overjoyed that it was me in trouble for once instead of him.

I gulped. Sure, I was 50 but hey, it was mom and she had busted me with beer.

With a sense of dread I returned to the condo and stepped inside the dark room. In one corner, partly hidden in the shadows sat my mother, looking more like the Godfather than mom.

“How long have you been an alcoholic?” she pointedly asked.

“It was a six-pack,” I argued.

“That’s where it starts,” she replied. “One six-pack, then a case and then you’re a stumbling drunk on Wild Turkey. Get rid of it.”
“But,” I babbled before dropping my head and doing as I was told.

That’s right. I’m in my fifties but I’ll always be a momma’s boy. Sorry Land Shark.

Contact Duane Sherrill at news@smithvillereview.com