Her name is Beverly

*Below please find a newspaper editorial I published 15 years ago in honor of Mother’s Day. Back then I was fresh out of university, running a weekly newspaper in the Ottawa valley and only just starting to see my mother as something more than a conduit for my own needs and desires. Back then the realization that she was a person and a woman, in addition to a mother, was a revelation for me.*

There’s a story I remember hearing, about the generation gap, that has rung especially true during the last few years.

It’s about a young man who wonders how his parents got so darn smart, so fast. After all, he reasoned, during his teenage years they were hopelessly ignorant.

Today is Mother’s Day and I can’t help reflecting on how much my mother has changed in the last year I’ve been fending for myself in this world, working and building my own family.

I have come to see my mother as a woman, not just a mom. It’s only now that her experiences seem to me those of a person, doing her best for her family no matter what the circumstances.

Beverly is the name of the woman who brought me into the world. She was a school teacher from the age of 18 and a city slicker, born and bred, when she fell in love with a mechanic and moved to a tiny village carved out of the bush north of Lindsay, Ontario.

Beverly left her comfortable middle class existence for one where every dollar was a struggle. She worked full time, raised two children and helped my father build a successful excavating business from the ground up.

And I remember that most of the time, like most children, I considered her slightly less than a person. I remember times when she looked exhausted, when a thoughtless remark brought a glint of tears to her eyes.

But like a lot of mothers she never said much – she was too busy creating an environment my brother and I were too young and too ignorant to fully appreciate.

There were dance lessons, piano lessons, pottery classes, and ping-pong, swimming and archery lessons. There were gymnastics, Juniors Rangers and Brownies.

One year I started a family newspaper and Beverly produced a typewriter, mimeographed the pages, sent copies to all the relatives, donated recipes and entered (and won) the poetry contest every month.

She clipped articles about story contests and encouraged me to enter. When I was 12, at her urging, I sent a column to the local newspaper and got my first job.

And when I became the first in my family to earn a university degree last year she surprised me by having it framed and mounted.

Over the years I’ve come to see Beverly for what she is – a lovely, kind, intelligent woman whose modesty would never allow her to describe herself in those terms.

But thanks to her I’ve got the perspective that allows me to see those qualities in her and the confidence to publicly admit my debt to Beverly.

I love you mom.