I blame Mother for many of my defects.
Could not tie my own shoes until sixth grade. They were tied for me while enjoying a leisurely breakfast each day.
She applied to college for me even though I told her not to bother – I was going to travel around Europe and study acting.
When I was finally accepted by a school that invited me to play football I told her that was the only reason I would go. She suggested I might consider it a better option than Vietnam. It was 1965.
When I arrived at the fieldhouse for early, two-a-day practices I was the only player accompanied by his mother. She stayed for two days.
It was years before I realized I might have to do some things for myself.
Actually, Mother trucked no nonsense.
As the baby of the family I was given a pass or two or a thousand. Still, she kept her foot squarely on my back and I bent to the pressure and expectations even though, outwardly, I was defiant almost from birth.
Deep down I wanted her approval and to please her.
I also knew she liked the maverick in people. In first grade she changed the spelling of her first name from “Alice” to “Alyce” because she wanted kids to know she was different.
A librarian, surrounded by books all day, she relaxed at home reading three to five books a week. I read with her and learned to love words, written words.
My father was a dominant personality and bigger than life in many ways. He owned a construction company, a family business, and my brothers and I went to work for him in our early teens, although I started later than they did because my mother said I had other interests, like a boat at the lake.
But my father knew I had little talent for his line of work and was more like my mother.
“He’s the one who doesn’t like getting his hands dirty,” he would say laughingly to distinguish me from my mechanically inclined siblings.
I loved the line because it was true.
Mother wanted to me to become a librarian and would write letters suggesting that career. One day my best friend on the football team snatched one of those letters from my hands and read it aloud as we sat by our lockers.
The locker room erupted in laughter.
She feared my defiant personality would cause me career obstacles. It was one of the many insights she had that proved correct. She was, as many mothers are, intuitive and right.
As the years went by and my father and brothers all died early I became aware of her true inner strength and grit, which came from indomitable faith. She never wavered and spent part of each day in quiet, contemplative prayer.
She was a rock.
She was also outspoken on all subjects and never backed away from voicing her opinions. Her grandchildren revered her and also feared her sharp tongue and criticisms when they stepped out of line.
I bought her a new car when she was older and she was clocked that day by a friend as she topped 80 miles an hour on a country road.
“Been driving since I was 11,” she responded when I asked her about the speeding.
I thought as I grew older I would feel less pressure from what I knew she expected of me but her presence never diminished, even after she died.
Mothers do that to us – even when it’s not Mother’s Day.
Richard Connor is president and publisher of the Fort Worth Business Press. Contact him at rconnor@bizpress.net