Our neighbors in the 1950s were the Grays. One of their children, Mike, was a year older than me. When I was 10, Mike swiped a couple of cigarettes from a pack belonging to his mother and invited me into their dark garage one fall evening. We lit up and puffed away as if cowboys on the open range. Before arriving at the butt end of the cowpoke contra ban, Mother called out my name from our back door. “Coming,” I hollered back.

As I stepped inside, Mother repeated my name from the basement adding, “come downstairs, please.” I slipped down steep steps to find Mother ironing clothes. “What were you doing in the Gray’s garage?” she asked. It was after dark. I should have been in the house before sundown. Hoping to satisfy her curiosity, I said that Mike and I were just hanging out, telling stories.

“I don’t believe you,” came her response. No more was said. There was no sense trying to talk myself out of trouble. I reeked of smoke. We both knew what the truth was, and that I had failed to tell it. Mother didn’t tan my hide, hog-tie, chain me in my room or punish me any other way. She had inflicted the penance required. Knowing I disappointed her was enough. How she understood this is a mystery not even Peter Falk’s Columbo could figure out.

Mother’s father outlived grandmother by four years. I spent a few days with him after he became a widower. Visiting in the living room one evening, he began to reminisce over the 62 years of marriage shared with grandmother. “We only had one argument during all those years,” he told me. When asked what brought about the disagreement, he said someone from the church had telephoned to ask if they would greet people at the door next Sunday. “When Grandmother told the caller yes,” he voiced with regret, “we didn’t quite see it the same way.”

Granddad had considerable impact on me. We often sat together in the backyard chatting as he smoked a cigar and shellacked me in cribbage. I often think of those days, his happiness, temperament and favorable hairline, all traits I now possess. Reflecting back on Granddad’s story of having only one argument with Grandmother, I recounted “the church incident” with Mother, then asked if the statement was accurate. “Oh, we sometimes remember things as we want to,” she said.

Mother’s wise answer enabled me to retain my own memory of grandparents — how they never had a sharp tongue or disparaging remark about each other, or anyone else. Whatever Mother’s true recollection might have been, it wasn’t important to share it. She recognized value in allowing her son to retain pleasant memories — not taint them.

After Dad died, Mother lived rather independently in a retirement facility. During a visit with her there, she shared the words spoken by women since the days of Cleopatra. “I could use some new shoes.” We drove to the shoe store where she tried on no less than two dozen pair. “I like these,” she said, then added, “but, those are nice too. I’m not sure I can afford two pair, though.” Helping track her finances, I knew there was no reason she couldn’t purchase both if she wished. Only a miniscule nudge was needed before two sets of footwear escaped out the door.

Reflecting more about her comment, I wondered if she worried about finances or other things, then asked what sort of matters worried her. “I don’t worry about things I cannot change,” she said. Her statement clearly said much more about dealing with anxieties faced in life than with the acquisition of shoes.

An evening treat of Ice cream was a tradition at Mother’s. During a trip to see her in later years, my wife offered to scoop ice cream as we sat visiting. “Carol, would you like any topping on yours?” Rita asked. “Well, a little chocolate wouldn’t make me mad,” Mother responded.

Her sense of humor was often subtle – perhaps one more genetic trait passed along from her father and on to her son. Finding the lighter side of life now and then is like chocolate on ice cream. Well placed humor seldom makes someone mad. Mother had a knack for finding it.

The first thing heard when I awoke from anesthesia following surgery at age 23 came from Mother. “I love you,” she said. Mother used the phrase more often as the years passed by. They were also the last words spoken to her while holding hands as she drew her last breath in 2009.

Wise words and affection shared between Mothers and children cling to the hearts of both forever. Happy Mother’s Day.