Placing a postscript on Mother’s Day

CHERRIL DOTY

Stepping out the front door into the warmth of the evening, I first

noticed the sultry scent of night blooming jasmine. A glance into the

twilight blue of the desert sky revealed a stately palm standing

sentinel to the night. Taking a deep breath, I walked to my car to

begin the Sunday night drive home from a Mother’s Day visit. What a

glorious day! The two hour drive time home alone would provide time

to reflect on this time together.

Coming over the rise just past Whitewater, my mouth dropped open

in surprise. The winding red taillight snake twisted and turned and

wended its way as far as my eye could see. After crawling along at a

true snail’s pace for nearly two miles, I could finally make out the

blinking orange highway sign at the right side of the road. It was

almost obscured by the tall row of semis. “Road work next eight miles

... use caution.” They are kidding, right? The only cautionary piece

here being that I might fall asleep. And where was the road work? One

mile in fifteen minutes and no sign of it. This was going to take

forever.

Wherever you go, there you are.

I began writing a column in my head -- a column of Mother’s Day --

a postscript to the day itself. A chance remark last week by one of

my daughters had led me to seek out some long-buried historical

information I had researched on the celebration of mothers here in

America. Her remark brought thoughts of how carried away with the

onus of duty and the commercialization of a sweet gesture of

commemoration many of us have become.

The modern Mother’s Day has its roots in small beginnings early in

the last century. In 1907, in Grafton, West Virginia, a spinster

named Anna Jarvis was upset by what she saw as neglect of mothers by

adult children. She was deeply devoted to her own mother and was

determined to alter what she saw as indifference. Anna began a

campaign of letter-writing to gain public support for setting aside

one day each year to pay tribute to all mothers. She wrote to

everyone she could think of who was “someone,” who had influence. She

wrote to mayors, doctors, lawyers, congressmen, senators, leaders in

the labor movement -- anyone who was in a public position. She was on

a crusade and hoped they would join her.

On the second anniversary of her own mother’s death -- May 10,

1908 -- she arranged for memorial church services. White carnations,

which had been her mother’s favorite, were distributed at these

services held in Grafton and in Philadelphia, where Anna had moved

after her mother’s death.

In 1910, the governor of West Virginia took on her cause and

officially proclaimed the first Mother’s Day in that state. Soon,

more states followed and, in 1914, President Woodrow Wilson declared

that Mother’s Day would be celebrated officially throughout the

United States on the second Sunday in May each year. What began with

Anna’s giving of white carnations extended to the custom of wearing

white carnations in memory of mothers who had died and red ones for

the mothers still living. This soon included giving of gifts and

sending of greeting cards. We all know the rest.

I thought of my day -- spent with my eighty-seven year old mother

and two of my siblings; of how good it had felt to be all together.

There was no onus of duty at all, but an opening up to each other in

honest and clear communication. There was just being who we are

without apology and with lots of laughter at ourselves and our

foibles -- both human and idiosyncratic. Did ‘duty’ get the three of

us children here? I suppose that it did. But once together -- not

even in celebration, but just in “being” -- we were no longer bound

by that obligatory piece. Hadn’t it only served as reminder anyhow?

So, as my final postscript to the day, I’d like to thank you, Anna

Jarvis. Though you are now long gone yourself, your dedication and

persistence with your idea for honoring mothers have presented us all

with wonderful opportunities for remembrance and joys. Wherever we as

a people may have taken your idea and to whatever extremes, it IS

still a good and very special thing.

Now if this long, red taillight snake of cars would only get

moving ...

* CHERRIL DOTY is a creative living coach, writer, artist, and

walker who lives and works in Laguna Beach. To schedule a coaching

session or to comment, contact her by e-mail at [email protected] or

by phone at (949) 251-3993.