Ah, Mother’s Day. The one day a year when so many collectively try to cram a lifetime of gratitude into a bouquet of flowers, a heartfelt card, or maybe even a lovingly prepared breakfast served with extra care and a side of smiles. It’s a day to celebrate the women who brought us into this world, patched us up when we tried to destroy ourselves, and somehow managed to love us through all of it.
This time of year always gets me thinking about my own mom. She’s no longer here, but the memories she left behind are as vivid as ever. Growing up in the mid-70s and 80s, I had the privilege of experiencing a simpler time—a time when kids played outside until the streetlights came on, parents didn’t need apps to track us, and the biggest household debate was over who got to control the TV’s three available channels. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t me.
My mom was the heart of our home, and, in other words, as they would say it today, she pretty much wore the pants in the family. She didn’t have the distractions of smartphones or streaming services to keep me entertained. She had to rely on her creativity, resourcefulness, and, let’s face it, a whole lot of patience. My dad worked full-time, and my older siblings had already moved out by the time I was a kid, so it was often just me and Mom spending our days together, waiting for Dad to come home. Those moments were simple, but they were great.
Of course, being the youngest of three, my childhood came with its own set of quirks. My siblings, who were much older than me, loved to remind me that I was the “golden child.” But let me tell you, being the youngest wasn’t always golden. Take this, for example: when my brother and sister were kids, they had ponies. Yes, actual ponies. My brother also had a mini bike. Me? I got none of that. By the time I came along, my parents had apparently learned that ponies were expensive and mini bikes were injury magnets. So, no pony rides or mini bike adventures for me. Instead, I had to settle for borrowing a friend’s go-kart or cobbling together something with wheels and a questionable safety rating. It’s an ongoing joke between me and my siblings that I got “screwed” out of the fun stuff, but looking back, I wouldn’t trade my time with Mom for anything.
Some of my favorite memories are of the time we spent in our above-ground pool. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it didn’t need to be. We’d spend hours splashing around, laughing, and soaking up the sunshine. When Dad got home, he would tell us about his day. Even though I probably didn’t understand some of the things he was talking about at the time, I still found it interesting or at least I was pretending to. Those moments of sharing, listening, and simply being together as a family were priceless.
Of course, not every memory was idyllic, and that’s where the humor comes in. Take, for example, the infamous Bactine. If you grew up in my era, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Bactine was my mom’s go-to remedy for every scrape, cut, and bruise I managed to rack up during my outdoor escapades. It came in a spray bottle, and let me tell you, that stuff stung like nothing else on Earth. My personal theory is that Bactine didn’t actually heal anything—it just hurt so much that you forgot about the original injury. It was like the Jedi mind trick of first aid: “What scraped knee? All I can feel is the fire on my skin!” But my mom would spray it on, tell me it was “making it better,” and send me back out to conquer the world (or at least the backyard).
And then there were the knee patches. Oh, the knee patches. If you were a kid in the 70s or 80s, you probably had a pair of jeans with those iron-on reinforcements at the knees. My mom was a master of patching up my clothes after I inevitably tore them during one of my adventures. But here’s the thing—has anyone ever noticed that the color of those patches was never even remotely close to the color of the actual jeans? It was like they were made in some alternate universe where denim only came in shades of “not even close.” The rest of the jeans would be soft and worn, but the knees? They were like wearing steel plates. I’m pretty sure those patches could stop a bullet. And I’m absolutely certain they’re still sitting in a landfill somewhere, outliving the jeans, the washing machine, and possibly the planet itself.
And let’s not forget the school lunches. Every day, my mom packed my lunch with care, and without fail, there was always a Hostess fruit pie or a Twinkie tucked inside. Now, my mom wasn’t shy about later lecturing me on the evils of junk food, but I think that was just a cover-up because she truly loved the fruit pies too. It wasn’t just a treat; it was social currency. At the lunch table, that fruit pie gave me leverage. But let’s be real, I rarely traded it—because anyone willing to part with a Hostess fruit pie clearly didn’t understand its value.
And then there’s the topic of video games. I didn’t have them as a kid—not because my parents couldn’t afford one, but because they didn’t really think they were good for young brains back in those days. They were expensive, sure, but it was more about the principle. My mom believed in getting outside, playing in nature, and exploring the world. And while I may have grumbled about it at the time, I now realize how much those outdoor adventures shaped me.
As you’ve read this commentary, you’ve seen it has a great deal of humor in it. Growing up, humor was always something that was important to my mom. My mom loved to laugh, she loved comedies, and she always loved to have fun and make sure we did growing up. When I was a kid, there weren’t a whole lot of other kids in my neighborhood—it was still rural. I had a handful of friends, but day to day, I spent most of my time with my mom, especially in the summer months.
Almost daily, we would head to downtown Placerville, where my dad managed his store, to take him lunch. I still remember those times vividly—tagging along with my mom as she visited different shops on Main Street. In those days, that’s where you got your essentials. It wasn’t just gift shops and boutiques; it was where you found your everyday necessities. I got my school clothes at a store called Cash Mercantile, and there was a Ben Franklin and other stores that carried everything we needed.
My mom always made those trips fun for me—an adventure. I still remember how she would let me stop and watch the train come into town, moving slowly, and wave to the engineer. Those simple things meant so much. And so this Mother’s Day, I’m remembering the simple things and how great they were.
Above everything else, though, the one thing my mom instilled in us was morals, values, honesty, and how to be good people. And she did it one-on-one, in person. It wasn’t read on an internet app, it wasn’t a blog, it wasn’t anything like that. It was done face-to-face with my mom, and you cannot imitate or replace that—nor would I ever want to. That’s the best thing and the most important thing I value from everything I got from her, because she taught me good morals. Those lessons still guide me today, with my family, and I thank her for that. Some of it was tough love, but she was pretty great, and it was never really too tough. Thank you, Mom.
So, to my mom in heaven: Happy Mother’s Day. Thank you for the love, the laughter, and the life lessons. Thank you for the Bactine, the knee patches, and the Hostess fruit pies. Most of all, thank you for being you.
Here’s to moms everywhere—the new moms, the veteran moms, the grandmothers. Thank you for everything you do in our world. You are the heart of our families, the glue that holds us together, and the guiding light that helps us navigate life. I encourage everyone out there to take the time to wish your mom a Happy Mother’s Day this weekend. If you can do it in person, go give her that hug—because someday, you won’t be able to give that hug. If she’s a distance away, pick up the phone and give her a call—because one day, you won’t be able to make that call. Celebrate your mom and be thankful for everything she has provided for you, from bringing you into this world to making sure you remained in it growing up.
Bill Sullivan is the co-founder and managing publisher of Folsom Times, a digital product of All Town Media LLC operated in Folsom, California.
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