In Memory of My Mother


Sue Harris
Born Dec. 22, 1932
Died August 28, 2002

My mom was not considered a Seagoville “old timer” by the true old timers. She only lived here for twenty-two years. My parents, Tommie and Sue Harris, moved to Seagoville in 1980 after Dad retired from 32 years of service to the City of Dallas. They moved to get out of the city atmosphere and closer to the rural environment where they’d spent their childhoods, but mostly they moved to be close to their only daughter: me. 

With the help of local real estate agent Pat Bearden, I’d bought a house here in 1978, a place to raise my own daughter alone after a short and disastrous marriage. I liked the town, with its single red light (flashing, that is) and its friendly people and its close proximity to all the amenities of Dallas while seeming to be in a different world. All of us made it our home. Dad and I both went to work for the city of Seagoville and got involved in the chamber of commerce. I served on the city council and as a police officer (not at the same time) and after retiring a second time, Dad was a member of the P&Z commission. 

Mom didn’t go to meetings or get into community service. She was a homebody, and in her quiet way made it possible for us to do all that we did and always have a friendly place to come back to at the end of the day. When my dad died in 1996, I said it was like losing the sun from the sky. He had always been there, his warmth keeping me alive and his faith in me giving me the faith that I could do whatever I set out to do. If Dad was like the sun, Mom was more like the moon. She didn’t shine nearly as brightly and much of her public glory was a reflection of his, but she was strong enough to turn the tide of my life more than once. 

Last week, the moon went out, the population of Seagoville shrank by one, and I lost something precious. My mom, Sue Harris, passed away on August 28th. She’d valiantly fought cancer for the last year and a half, making the trek to the Texas Cancer Center for chemotherapy sometimes five days a week. She’d somehow maintained an optimistic outlook and her sense of humor even when just looking at her – shrunken to 100 lbs and unable for the last few weeks of her life to even go outside to feed her beloved wild birds – made me want to cry.  

She didn’t leave behind much in material goods, just a car she’d bought a few months before and hardly gotten a chance to drive and the house she refused to leave (even when I tried to get her to move in with us so we’d be closer to take care of her) because it was her home and held all her memories of my dad. Doctor bills had eaten up most of the life savings that she and dad built together. She didn’t leave behind an impressive biography; she hadn’t held any important-sounding jobs or positions, but had instead spent most of her life taking care of others.

She took care of dad for the fortysomething years they were married. She took care of me, long after I’d reached adulthood and sometimes chafed at the weight of being the focus of her life. She took care of my kids, giving them all the benefits of the extended family that so many children don’t have these days. She took care of her neighbors, always concerned and ready to lend them a helping hand.  She took care of other patients at the chemo center, who called her when they needed a friendly ear. She took care of her fellow church members, her numerous “adopted grandchildren” and all the family pets. 

I miss her terribly, but it makes me glad to know that she’s finally reunited with my dad, and that after all her years of taking care of everyone else, Someone is taking good care of her.

Deb Shinder
September 2002