Mother's Day and Raccoon Collars

As I recently pondered the countless messages and memories associated with Mother's Day, I couldn't help but think of my own mother and my recollections of her grace, unconquerable strength and quiet determination. My own motherhood is less worthy of contemplation, not because of any perceived inadequacies but because I hope that my role is far from over.

Ironically, I have only recently become aware that the years since I have lost my mother as part of my life are the source of my understanding of her character. By no means am I the only daughter who as a child didn't appreciate her mother's value. Perhaps a lesson is to be learned by all children '" that as young people, they haven't experienced enough of life to understand the role that their mother played in their lives.

That reality must be the right one. Who will be able to understand his or her mother's influence until either that influence is missing or the torch of parenthood is transferred? For fear of stating the obvious, this has unequivocally been the case for my journey. And yet, there is more.

Because I was no different from my classmates with respect to clothing and peer pressure, the absolutely mandatory item of clothing during my seventh and eighth grade life was a cloth coat with raccoon collar. (Please accept my apologies, ASPCA and PETA. We had no knowledge about endangered species or animal protection in these days.) And as was also consistent with my fellow students, I didn't have the minutest clue as to what actions would be associated with providing that coat to me.

The coat was eventually bought for me, complete with a trip on the Illinois Central to go downtown Chicago for its purchase. I remember feeling that my life would know nothing more elevating, no matter where I went or what I achieved. And I wore my coat with all the pride and ostentatious superiority that I could muster.

Many years later (this past week), I realized what that one purchase must have required. We were not nearly as affluent as my buddies in grade school. Quite a few of their parents were doctors or attorneys while my family struggled with one working parent (father) who battled in Chicago's stockyards and one who suffered from two debilitating and ultimately terminal diseases. My mother had made many of my clothes, partially for the sake of economy and partially I (now) suppose, for the creative fulfillment inherent to making something useful and pretty for me.

What was she forced to sacrifice for that coat? More tragically, what use could have been made with that money to have made her more comfortable? I make no attempt to apologize, symbolically or otherwise, for my youth and the typical condition of that age that requires conformity. Fortunately, I have no desire or ability to readjust that perception in order to make it as compassionate as I would prefer.

But the implications of her sacrifice are only apparent to me now. Underlying that sacrifice is another message of greater power. She never said a word. With wisdom that I can only dream of emulating, she simply did what she knew was important to me, subordinating all else.

If you have a mother to honor, you may never know entirely what she has done to make your life comfortable or secure. I would suggest, however, that for every playground injury that she bandaged, every meal that she provided, (whether she ate or not) and every peer-pressure-critical item that you have treasured, Mom's participation is a given. Take the moment that you have to thank her, for lessons learned and those that will be.