Those of us who are truly lucky have more than one mother. They are the cool aunts, the elderly ladies, the family friends, even the mentors who whip us into shape. By my count, I’ve had at least eight mothers. One of the most important was Sally Adams Bascom Augenstern.
I never saw my South Carolina aunt in anything but a dress--shopping, gardening, whatever. She too was a special mother to me, in more ways than one. She provided a home for my sister and me when my mother was hospitalized for a time. Despite terrible losses (husband, only child) early in her married life, she didn't withdraw from life but stayed so interested in other people. When we asked her how she managed to do that, she said, "I just believe in the ministry of encouragement." And so do I.
I am one of those mothers who mother without becoming a biological mother. Thank you for acknowledging us, and for sharing this wonderful portrait of one of yours.
Dear HCR, today you bequeathed to us all the gifts of motherhood on levels that I will never forget. In March, I lost my last two mothers within 5 days of each other -- a mere month after having said my final farewells to my beloved brother and only sibling. These last months of grief have been beyond belief.
During my childhood, many moons ago, my mother had a group of friends who met on Wednesdays, to play cards. They called themselves the Canasta girls. They were a band of merry women who formed a delightful sisterhood, and eventually, motherhood for all their little children. We were all enriched by these amazing mothers, sisters, and friends. For fifteen magical years, the youngsters all became the proud sons and daughters of the Canasta Girls.
Gitty and Carol were treasured Canasta girls. I loved each of them in such distinct ways, yet both provided me with love, shelter, and eternal guidance which have become rooted in my very being until the day that I cease to be. Gitty and Carol were my mothers and each was my 'anam cara.'
In his book, *Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom*, John O'Donahue writes:
"In the Celtic tradition, there is a beautiful understanding of love and friendship. One of the fascinating ideas here is the idea of soul-love; the old Gaelic term for this is anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend. So anam cara in the Celtic world was the “soul friend.” In the early Celtic church, a person who acted as a teacher, companion, or spiritual guide was called an anam cara. It originally referred to someone to whom you confessed, revealing the hidden intimacies of your life. With the anam cara you could share your inner-most self, your mind and your heart. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging. When you had an anam cara, your friendship cut across all convention, morality, and category. You were joined in an ancient and eternal way with the 'friend of your soul.' The Celtic understanding did not set limitations of space or time on the soul. There is no cage for the soul. The soul is a divine light that flows into you and into your Other. This art of belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship."
And so, on this Mother's Day, I remember with profound love, gratitude and soul friendship: Gitty, Carol, Muggy, Annette, Aileen, Belén, and all the beautiful Canasta girls, with very special reverence and hallowed memories.
Thank you Professor Richardson - such a loving and evocative and important story. Thanks for sharing it and for reminding us of all the vital mothers who shape our lives.
My Grandmother Ruth was a mother to me and to many, many others. She lived a long life, just months shy of 100. I wrote this about her.
The screen door clapped softly shut as I walked into the yard
Passed that rock that looked like a mountain when I was a boy
And my grandmother stood there with that screen door between her and the world
And watched me go
And could barely raise her hand goodbye
Do you remember the sound of a screen door shutting
The sound of days beginning and ending
Of kids running out into the yard
Of sons leaving for war for the last time maybe
Of daughters leaving with husbands for the first time maybe
Of husbands going to the corner for a drink for the last time maybe
Of mothers watching their families grow in the shadows of that door frame
Of seeing the world through that hazy screen with the kitchen behind them
Of wishing we wouldn’t leave
Of trying not to remember too well
Of holding back tears until we had cleared the yard
And pausing there a moment
A moment to themselves
A moment we might never know inside that place
That all of us walked through without thinking
Of who we were leaving or what we were headed out to do
Dr. Richardson, I have been reading and occasionally responding to your Letter for the past 6 months or so. I never expected to find such excellent writing and thinking out in Internet Land, but life is full of surprises and I am deeply grateful to you.
Unsurprisingly, Allison -- my 95 year old stepmother -- who "stepped" into my life when my father remarried a year after my mother died in 1964, is the one who suggested Letter from an American to me. Despite my often rude resistance to her during my rebellious teenage years, she managed to mother me (and her 3 children from her first marriage) while having a pretty luminous career at USAID and in the foreign service, even luring me to Kenya in the summer of '81 where I first met my Italian wife and discovered there was more to the world than just the USA. This was about 15 years after she convinced me to attend a summer camp near Carson City NV -- too far from my friends in DC, or so I thought -- that changed my life in many ways, all of them positive and permanent.
I've had a couple of other mothers along the way, but Allison is the champ and is still sharp as a tack, running her retirement community's library and complaining that "these old ladies just can't figure out data entry" as she tries to update the computerized book check-out system.
Heather, as painful as your missives are, reflecting the reality of our poorly educated populace, who seem incapable of critical thinking, and immoral leaders (not amoral because there is a distinction), this is the first time you have brought me to tears. Really good tears. Thank you for being the awesome being that you are. Carry on....
You know and write wondrously of mother love. It is, I think, the granite on which your love for democracy stands. You show it in your daily posts and it is encouraging us to be strong, vigilant, and active. Thank you, thank you.
I am so glad you wrote this chapter from your life <3 I recall one of your weekday talks and you mentioned 'the washing machine' as the most important historical event by your neighbor. And I meant to email you to please tell us more!! I am not very patient, lol, but thank you!!
It brought memories of my Grandmother's washing machine, a huge cylindrical tub on wheels with the clothing wringer on top, placed on the front cement porch, with the clothesline nearby on their retired 100 acre farm in New Canaan, Nova Scotia. My Grandmother was 96 when she passed and I just welcomed my 94 year old Mother into my home on Hospice Respite care. Happy Mother's Day!!
My father “mothered” my sister and me. Supporting and nurturing, he was our head cheerleader. My mother was loving, but psychotic. My dad stepped in and was/is our role model for our relationships with our children and grandchildren today. We have many mothers among us in different forms.
This is by far the best writing on Mother’s Day I have ever read. This year, especially, I have wished for far fewer posts glorifying motherhood and more respecting the pain of women who have lost children through death or miscarriages. And as one who has had several “other mothers” to whip me into shape, I devoured this post. Thank you, Heather Cox Richardson.
Loved this story. I am one of those women like her who becomes the second, third or fourth mother. And I see the role as important as any others I have. 💗
i never had children but am a fabulous aunt to many. i did bring 12.5 PhDs and 17.5 Master’s thesis students into the world. mothering these brilliant academics has been my most satisfying joy in the academy. HMD
Thank you for this great memory. I too had many mothers, most of them teachers. My mother died when I was a few days short of 18, so I have been without her for a very long time. I have no children, but considered many of the students where I taught, my kids. Many of them are now mothers (and fathers) themselves and I have enjoyed watching them with their children. In the hopes that we all have people who are special to us, both our actual family and those who we cherish outside our family.
This has bee a tough week. My late mother's birthday was the 3rd, then, of course Mother's Day and yesterday, May 8 is my lost brother's birthday. Just a week full of sad. I lost my mother in 2016 after Trump was elected. There was no fixing her. She had end stage COPD. We said our good bye's in the hospital--well, actually said "Til we meet again." She was going home with hospice in 2 days and my brother (whom she lived with) was getting the house ready for the parade of home care deliveries and admission nurses. She insisted they bring her home a day early. He called me the morning after her return to tell me she was gone. He was so choked up and upset that he did not even get one day with her alone. One year later, my brother was found dead in his bedroom by my nephew who had come to meet him to go to work. He overdosed on heroin that had fentanyl in it. He never shared this struggle with me. Since he lived in another state, I did not see him often and since he had his own contracting business in a busy city, he was always "on a job." I miss the hell out of both of them and I think I most resent being deprived of my little brother who should still be here loving being a grandpa to the most adorable toddler girl that he never got to meet. Both dead from substance abuse (my mother could never quit cigarette smoking) ... I guess I could add my Dad who died of lung cancer in 2005 to that list but this is May and it is my brother and my mother who I am most missing this moment. I think my brother really missed Mom.
Last year during the pandemic I received an email from a man in Canada claiming to be a 3rd cousin of mine. He has been interested in genealogy for a long time but because of the pandemic had a lot more time to spend on it and that is how he found me. We have become great friends and he has done a very long chart on my family, both on my father’s side (the side that we are related on) and generously also on my mother’s side.
I shared this newsletter with him and this evening he read this story. I received a text from him telling me that your Mrs. A is my 7th cousin twice removed! He sent me the chart going all the way back to 1641. As a kid growing up in Southern California we had always heard stories about a bandit on my great grandfather’s side whose nick name was “Bad Man Bascom”. I had told my newly found cousin about him and that is how he knew to run the chart and see if I was related to Sally. Small world.
I never saw my South Carolina aunt in anything but a dress--shopping, gardening, whatever. She too was a special mother to me, in more ways than one. She provided a home for my sister and me when my mother was hospitalized for a time. Despite terrible losses (husband, only child) early in her married life, she didn't withdraw from life but stayed so interested in other people. When we asked her how she managed to do that, she said, "I just believe in the ministry of encouragement." And so do I.
I am one of those mothers who mother without becoming a biological mother. Thank you for acknowledging us, and for sharing this wonderful portrait of one of yours.
Dear HCR, today you bequeathed to us all the gifts of motherhood on levels that I will never forget. In March, I lost my last two mothers within 5 days of each other -- a mere month after having said my final farewells to my beloved brother and only sibling. These last months of grief have been beyond belief.
During my childhood, many moons ago, my mother had a group of friends who met on Wednesdays, to play cards. They called themselves the Canasta girls. They were a band of merry women who formed a delightful sisterhood, and eventually, motherhood for all their little children. We were all enriched by these amazing mothers, sisters, and friends. For fifteen magical years, the youngsters all became the proud sons and daughters of the Canasta Girls.
Gitty and Carol were treasured Canasta girls. I loved each of them in such distinct ways, yet both provided me with love, shelter, and eternal guidance which have become rooted in my very being until the day that I cease to be. Gitty and Carol were my mothers and each was my 'anam cara.'
In his book, *Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom*, John O'Donahue writes:
"In the Celtic tradition, there is a beautiful understanding of love and friendship. One of the fascinating ideas here is the idea of soul-love; the old Gaelic term for this is anam cara. Anam is the Gaelic word for soul and cara is the word for friend. So anam cara in the Celtic world was the “soul friend.” In the early Celtic church, a person who acted as a teacher, companion, or spiritual guide was called an anam cara. It originally referred to someone to whom you confessed, revealing the hidden intimacies of your life. With the anam cara you could share your inner-most self, your mind and your heart. This friendship was an act of recognition and belonging. When you had an anam cara, your friendship cut across all convention, morality, and category. You were joined in an ancient and eternal way with the 'friend of your soul.' The Celtic understanding did not set limitations of space or time on the soul. There is no cage for the soul. The soul is a divine light that flows into you and into your Other. This art of belonging awakened and fostered a deep and special companionship."
And so, on this Mother's Day, I remember with profound love, gratitude and soul friendship: Gitty, Carol, Muggy, Annette, Aileen, Belén, and all the beautiful Canasta girls, with very special reverence and hallowed memories.
Thank you Professor Richardson - such a loving and evocative and important story. Thanks for sharing it and for reminding us of all the vital mothers who shape our lives.
My Grandmother Ruth was a mother to me and to many, many others. She lived a long life, just months shy of 100. I wrote this about her.
The screen door clapped softly shut as I walked into the yard
Passed that rock that looked like a mountain when I was a boy
And my grandmother stood there with that screen door between her and the world
And watched me go
And could barely raise her hand goodbye
Do you remember the sound of a screen door shutting
The sound of days beginning and ending
Of kids running out into the yard
Of sons leaving for war for the last time maybe
Of daughters leaving with husbands for the first time maybe
Of husbands going to the corner for a drink for the last time maybe
Of mothers watching their families grow in the shadows of that door frame
Of seeing the world through that hazy screen with the kitchen behind them
Of wishing we wouldn’t leave
Of trying not to remember too well
Of holding back tears until we had cleared the yard
And pausing there a moment
A moment to themselves
A moment we might never know inside that place
That all of us walked through without thinking
Of who we were leaving or what we were headed out to do
But I won’t forget
For as long as memory serves
Or someone somewhere remembers
That screen door clapping behind you
Clapping all seasons of the year
Clapping for all reasons under the sun
Clapping until all our suns and moons decline
Dr. Richardson, I have been reading and occasionally responding to your Letter for the past 6 months or so. I never expected to find such excellent writing and thinking out in Internet Land, but life is full of surprises and I am deeply grateful to you.
Unsurprisingly, Allison -- my 95 year old stepmother -- who "stepped" into my life when my father remarried a year after my mother died in 1964, is the one who suggested Letter from an American to me. Despite my often rude resistance to her during my rebellious teenage years, she managed to mother me (and her 3 children from her first marriage) while having a pretty luminous career at USAID and in the foreign service, even luring me to Kenya in the summer of '81 where I first met my Italian wife and discovered there was more to the world than just the USA. This was about 15 years after she convinced me to attend a summer camp near Carson City NV -- too far from my friends in DC, or so I thought -- that changed my life in many ways, all of them positive and permanent.
I've had a couple of other mothers along the way, but Allison is the champ and is still sharp as a tack, running her retirement community's library and complaining that "these old ladies just can't figure out data entry" as she tries to update the computerized book check-out system.
We men would be lost without our mothers.
Heather, as painful as your missives are, reflecting the reality of our poorly educated populace, who seem incapable of critical thinking, and immoral leaders (not amoral because there is a distinction), this is the first time you have brought me to tears. Really good tears. Thank you for being the awesome being that you are. Carry on....
You know and write wondrously of mother love. It is, I think, the granite on which your love for democracy stands. You show it in your daily posts and it is encouraging us to be strong, vigilant, and active. Thank you, thank you.
I am so glad you wrote this chapter from your life <3 I recall one of your weekday talks and you mentioned 'the washing machine' as the most important historical event by your neighbor. And I meant to email you to please tell us more!! I am not very patient, lol, but thank you!!
It brought memories of my Grandmother's washing machine, a huge cylindrical tub on wheels with the clothing wringer on top, placed on the front cement porch, with the clothesline nearby on their retired 100 acre farm in New Canaan, Nova Scotia. My Grandmother was 96 when she passed and I just welcomed my 94 year old Mother into my home on Hospice Respite care. Happy Mother's Day!!
My father “mothered” my sister and me. Supporting and nurturing, he was our head cheerleader. My mother was loving, but psychotic. My dad stepped in and was/is our role model for our relationships with our children and grandchildren today. We have many mothers among us in different forms.
This is by far the best writing on Mother’s Day I have ever read. This year, especially, I have wished for far fewer posts glorifying motherhood and more respecting the pain of women who have lost children through death or miscarriages. And as one who has had several “other mothers” to whip me into shape, I devoured this post. Thank you, Heather Cox Richardson.
Loved this story. I am one of those women like her who becomes the second, third or fourth mother. And I see the role as important as any others I have. 💗
i never had children but am a fabulous aunt to many. i did bring 12.5 PhDs and 17.5 Master’s thesis students into the world. mothering these brilliant academics has been my most satisfying joy in the academy. HMD
Thank you for this great memory. I too had many mothers, most of them teachers. My mother died when I was a few days short of 18, so I have been without her for a very long time. I have no children, but considered many of the students where I taught, my kids. Many of them are now mothers (and fathers) themselves and I have enjoyed watching them with their children. In the hopes that we all have people who are special to us, both our actual family and those who we cherish outside our family.
A lovely story...perhaps being remembered is the greatest gift of all.
This has bee a tough week. My late mother's birthday was the 3rd, then, of course Mother's Day and yesterday, May 8 is my lost brother's birthday. Just a week full of sad. I lost my mother in 2016 after Trump was elected. There was no fixing her. She had end stage COPD. We said our good bye's in the hospital--well, actually said "Til we meet again." She was going home with hospice in 2 days and my brother (whom she lived with) was getting the house ready for the parade of home care deliveries and admission nurses. She insisted they bring her home a day early. He called me the morning after her return to tell me she was gone. He was so choked up and upset that he did not even get one day with her alone. One year later, my brother was found dead in his bedroom by my nephew who had come to meet him to go to work. He overdosed on heroin that had fentanyl in it. He never shared this struggle with me. Since he lived in another state, I did not see him often and since he had his own contracting business in a busy city, he was always "on a job." I miss the hell out of both of them and I think I most resent being deprived of my little brother who should still be here loving being a grandpa to the most adorable toddler girl that he never got to meet. Both dead from substance abuse (my mother could never quit cigarette smoking) ... I guess I could add my Dad who died of lung cancer in 2005 to that list but this is May and it is my brother and my mother who I am most missing this moment. I think my brother really missed Mom.
Last year during the pandemic I received an email from a man in Canada claiming to be a 3rd cousin of mine. He has been interested in genealogy for a long time but because of the pandemic had a lot more time to spend on it and that is how he found me. We have become great friends and he has done a very long chart on my family, both on my father’s side (the side that we are related on) and generously also on my mother’s side.
I shared this newsletter with him and this evening he read this story. I received a text from him telling me that your Mrs. A is my 7th cousin twice removed! He sent me the chart going all the way back to 1641. As a kid growing up in Southern California we had always heard stories about a bandit on my great grandfather’s side whose nick name was “Bad Man Bascom”. I had told my newly found cousin about him and that is how he knew to run the chart and see if I was related to Sally. Small world.