Happy Mother's Day should be every day

May 9—"Mama was my greatest teacher, a teacher of compassion, love and fearlessness. If love is sweet as a flower, then my mother is that sweet flower of love."

— Stevie Wonder

Happy Mother's Day to all mothers and to all women who take the place of a mother when needed. If it weren't for mothers, none of us would be here. I figured I might as well state the obvious right off the bat.

Hopefully, you have your mother still here to thank for all she has done in your life. Sure, the flowers, candy, dinner and other things are nice to give her, but I'm sure she most wants to hear "I love you, Mom!" and "Thanks for everything you did for me!"

And, of course, we turn into our mothers in many ways. This applies to sons, as well. I catch myself doing things my mom would do. She didn't have a lot of education, having left school after the eighth grade to work, but she made up for that in tons of common sense.

Today I have a story about a four-legged mother. I grew up with cats. There was one dog when I was very young (his name was Brownie), but cats were the pets. At times, quite a bit of them, although they were outside cats that came in the house from time to time.

This is a story about one cat. I don't remember her name. She was pregnant. She was "with kitties." She was an inside cat who went outside regularly. Now, when a momma cat looked like it was time for birthing, she was not left outside. One day she was left out, but she didn't return that day. She didn't return the next day. Uh-oh!!! On the third day, she showed up in the morning on the porch. She was considerably thinner.

Well, now we knew why she had not come home the same day. She had her babies somewhere, but where? While in the house, she had a good meal and then was anxious to get outside again. My mom got a small box and placed rags in the bottom, gave it to my sister and I and left her out. We started walking toward the nearby mountain. She looked back every so often. I wonder if she was hoping we would follow.

And we walked. And walked. And walked. Where were we going? Timbuktu? Jabip? Back in the day, those words meant a long way away, the middle of nowhere.

My sister and I walked up an old dirt stripping road, then over some paths, heading up the mountain. Where did she have these kittens? I was familiar with all these roads and paths, so nothing was unusual. We worked our way up until we ended up in this remote area. She walked over to a pile of large rocks about a mile from the house. There was an opening in a the rock pile. The cat didn't go in, but you could hear a kitten crying.

Looking inside, my sister and I couldn't see anything in the dark. It was a matter of reaching in and hoping we didn't grab a snake or something. Actually, my sister, Mary Jean, had to be careful. She was the one reaching in because she had a bit longer arms than me. She found one kitten and got it out and put it in the box while Momma cat looked in. Next reach in got a second kitten. Then a third, followed by a fourth. Feeling around, that was it. We took the box and walked home, with Momma cat following close behind.

We got home and put the kittens in a bigger box under the kitchen table. Momma cat got in and nursed them. All's well that ends well.

The next day, Momma cat went outside and disappeared for a few hours. It seemed a bit unusual for such a long time. Later, I looked outside and saw Momma cat walking across the yard toward the house. As she got closer, I saw something in her mouth. It was another kitten. We had left a fifth kitten on the mountain. Momma cat had four kittens with her, but she knew there was one missing and went back to get it and bring it all the way home. I didn't know cats could count.

Let's face it that if there is any example of a mother's love, that was definitely one of them. Even with having four kittens with her, she, as a mother, just couldn't leave the fifth one behind to die. What happened was awesome. Something I'll never forget.

So, happy Mother's Day!!! Enjoy the day!!!

—"When your mother asks, 'Do you want a piece of advice?', it is a mere formality. It doesn't matter if you answer yes or no. You're going to get it anyway."

— Erma Bombeck

—"A man should never be ashamed to admit he has been in the wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser today than he was yesterday."

— Alexander Pope

—Here's a story I found somewhere on the internet. Nice story with a good message.

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom.

When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar. As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar.

They landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.

When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back."

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly. "These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me."

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm.

"When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again," he said.

He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.

"You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer when Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to make them more palatable, he became more determined than ever to make a way out for me.

"When you finish college, son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have to eat beans again — unless you want to."

The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.

When I married, I told my wife, Susan, about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter, Jessica, was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms.

"She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her.

When Susan came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and leading me into the room.

"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.

To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could speak.

This truly touched my heart. Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we forget to count our blessings. Never underestimate the power of your actions. With one small gesture you can change a person's life, for better or for worse.

God puts us all in each other's lives to impact one another in some way. Look for GOOD in others.

(Staff writer Usalis can

be reached at jusalis@

republicanherald.com)