Louise T. Guinther

When I was a kid, I was convinced that my mother was the best mother in the history of the world. Now that I’m older and have years of experience and perspective, I know beyond the shadow of a doubt that I was right.

Other kids in school used to look forward to going to McDonald’s, where they could get what they called “real food.” I guess the cuisine at home was not so hot. My mom was such a good cook that when we went out to eat at a fancy restaurant, we enjoyed the atmosphere and the novelty, but we only put up with the food; it may have been delicious, but it was never quite as good as what we got at home. Mom was a fashion-plate too, always the best-dressed woman in the room, and her hand-me-downs made our costume box the most elegant one in the neighborhood.

If we needed help with our homework, Mom was a Phi Beta Kappa, so any insights she gave were golden. When we had chores to do, she made them fun: there was a special dishwashing song that went “Washing dishes with my sweetie in the kitchen sink. We do things we shouldn’t oughta — we hold handsies under wat-ah. A-rinky-dink!” Chores were a badge of honor anyway, because she had read us The Country Bunny with the Little Gold Shoes, and we wanted to be as good as the bunnies in the book. (Anyone who has never read this story should remedy that omission right away.)

Mom kept us entertained and edified in countless ways. In the heat of summer, she took us and our little friends to the Aquacade, a remnant of the 1939 world’s fair that was, at that time, open to the public as a swimming pool with an admission price of 25 cents, and which served the best French fries this side of Jones Beach.

In the winter, ours was the house where, after a session of sledding or snowman-making, everyone convened for hot cocoa and marshmallows by a roaring fire. At any season, there were always projects in the kitchen that appealed from a culinary and an artistic standpoint: we were the only people I knew who had a homemade birthday cake that looked like a choo-choo train, or made edible stained-glass windows out of crushed lifesaver candies at Christmastime.

Mom was a professional actress for a while before we came along, and our growing up was filled with quotations and references. She had a song for everything: if an article of winter apparel went missing, she could be heard warbling, “One glove, I have but one glove” in a beautiful soprano. A high-school friend once told us, “I love your mother — she’s so dramatic.” We had no idea what she meant; we thought all mothers must be that way.

I can’t begin to count the number of things for which I’m grateful to my mother. She formed my literary sensibility, introducing me to, among many other authors and poets, her college professor Randall Jarrell. If you are not familiar with his works, go straight to Amazon and see if you can find a copy of The Gingerbread Rabbit, Jarrell’s version of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves or The Bat Poet.

(If you think you’re too grownup for such things, find some kids to read them to. I guarantee you’ll enjoy it as much as they will.) When Mom read aloud to us we were riveted. She used to fall asleep sometimes in the middle of her own readings, but my sister and I were always wide awake and would shake her and cry, “Read! Read!” until she picked up the book again.

I am particularly beholden to my mother for the example of her kind, sensible and responsible approach to life. She made time for everything that seemed important: when she was driving us back from school, she might spot an old lady hobbling along with her groceries and offer her a ride home, no matter how far away she lived, even if we didn’t know her from Adam. All the patrons of Mom’s department at the church rummage sale —the ladies’ separates—looked forward to the sale not only for the bargains but for the chance to connect with my mother, who had a way of haggling over prices that made everybody feel good.

Although she was a fun, loving and easygoing mother, she was not a pushover: our childhood contained some hard lessons — and the hardest ones were often the best. Some people learned everything they need to know in kindergarten; I learned everything I needed to know at my mother’s knee. Among the lessons I’m most grateful for are:

If you love something, don’t be reluctant to commit to it or make sacrifices for it. In the end, it will reward you.

Be kind to strays and misfits. You’ll be amazed what transformations can be wrought by kindness. And when you find yourself lost or bent out of shape, you will want someone to be kind to you.

Don’t dwell on the bad stuff. You can’t control what happens to you, but you can refuse to let it define you.

Don’t be scared of anything. Just take on the challenges one at a time when they come along.

Of course, she didn’t say any of these things —at least not in so many words. But she embodied those ideas in the way she lived and in the way she helped us figure out how to live. Maybe it was spending months and months lying flat on her back in a full-body cast after falling out of a tree when she was nine. Maybe it was growing up during the Great Depression and World War II. Maybe it was losing both her parents before she graduated from college. I don’t know how she got the way she is, but I’m so glad to have her as my role model.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. My world would be lost without you.