While there's no doubt that our parents wield an immense influence on our lives, and there's nothing wrong with special days proclaimed for the express purpose of honoring each of our parents (and thereby causing an upward blip in the cash receipts of the nation's retailers), other influences also deserve special attention and a day of their own.
My mother never recovered from the trauma of having given birth to me.
She did the delivery thing once. For her, once was more than enough. From as far back as memory goes, this only child remembers her regaling friends ---and sometimes strangers --- with the uncomfortable details of her son's leisurely arrival on Planet Earth.
Leisurely for me, but --- according to my mom --- a 24-hour exercise in pain for her.
"Right then, I knew one thing for sure," she would tell anyone who seemed to be paying slight attention. "There would be no more babies in my life," and she said it without the barest hint of a smile.
Although both sides of my family we were of Irish ancestry, accustomed to hard times and the distilled fruit of the vine, somewhere I took a wrong turn, eventually identifying more with Judaism than the Emerald Isle. Early on I learned a lot about guilt, which isn't confined to, or dispensed by, only Jewish mothers. Somehow I determined that my mother's pain and suffering, which she described at excruciating length to anyone who might tune in, were all my fault.
Later, after getting a lesson in the birds and bees on the school playground, I learned that my father had quite a bit to do with it, too
Down the through decades I never demonstrated enthusiasm about celebrating Mother's Day. This special Sunday in May propelled too many emotions dashing madly about in my gray matter. The lack of motherly love often made me feel like an orphan. But that's another story. My mother departed this life five years ago. She now resides only in the memories of those who knew her. And who, try as they might, can't forget her.
With Mother's Day in the thoughts of us all, I wanted to pay attention to special females in my life, particularly one special lady outside my immediate family. My beautiful wife and four gorgeous daughters bring me happiness and love. But today's topic is concerned with one who will forever hold a special spot in my heart.
I experienced my first crush at the age of six, falling for the charms and grace of Miss Lucy Alford, the blonde dreamboat who taught first grade at Walton Grade School, located in a ramshackle stone structure in a tiny community in the tobacco and horse country of northern Kentucky, twenty miles south of Cincinnati, on the fabled Dixie Highway.
Miss Lucy, as everyone called her, handed me the most important gift I have ever received. She taught me how to read. That skill, which I have practiced now for more decades than I care to admit, should be the single most important event in the lives of us all. Without the ability to read, we are lost. In today's technological world, reading and comprehension prowess mean everything.
Today I live in Southeastern Ohio, at Marietta, a beautiful 210-year-old community where the waters of the Muskingum River flow into the majestic Ohio River. Marietta lies roughly halfway between Pittsburgh and Cincinnati. The magnificent sternwheeler Delta Queen and its bigger sisters always dock in town during their summer treks up and down the Ohio.
Recently the media reported that nearly 20 percent of Ohio's stalwart citizens are functionally illiterate. That is, they can't read well enough to navigate through a daily newspaper, or fill out a job application. That's an astounding and depressing figure, one which I assume isn't much better in the remaining 49 states. Placing blame for such a problem isn't easy, and illiteracy is a problem that can not be remedied by merely throwing money at it --- the only method of mitigation our unenlightened politicians seem capable of devising.
Susan Reimer, a talented columnist for The Baltimore Sun, wrote recently about a high school English teacher in Concord, Massachusetts, who had developed a plan to encourage kids to keep reading. This teacher, Mary Leonhardt, doesn't assign a single book for her entire class to read. She allows the students to choose their own title, be it Stephen King, Michael Crichton or Rosamunde Pilcher.
Reimer reported that to get an A or B in Ms. Leonhardt's class, her students must read "a lot" of the book they select. "The only rule is that if you start a book and you don't like it, you can't continue. You must find something you like," Leonhardt told the columnist. "Poor readers believe there isn't any book they will like. Can you imagine what it does for them when they find one?"
I wonder, are teachers in today's schools really encouraging their charges to develop a love for the written word? You love to love to read by reading, reading everything you can find, and doing it in your spare time.
Parents, make time for reading.
It doesn't make any difference what it is. There are thousands of good books aimed at children, with more being published every month. Publishers inundate me with kids' books. I read them even at my advanced age. They're terrific.
Reading is wonderful, and during this month when Hallmark, Gibson, and American Greetings get richer by selling cards that pay tribute to moms, why not say a kind word and buy a rose for the teacher who pushes, in a gentle and loving way, your children to read. Reading is everything. You must read and read and read, as you would be expected to do to attain skills that can be attained only with practice.
My Mom did at least one thing right. She never objected to my voracious appetite for books. For that, at least, I can say, "Thanks. I needed that."
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Bob Powers never leaves home without a book. His theory: you never know when you,ll get a chance to read. His column, "Powersbooks," appears weekly in G21.
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G21 WORDS: BOB POWERS reminisces about "MOTHERS & OTHERS"
STONEWALL VIEWS: PHIL MARTIN writes about "LEARNING TO GET ALONG."
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