A mother's guiding hand

My very first opinion piece wasn’t published on some newspaper’s editorial page or blogosphere. The one-page document was scheduled to appear on the desk of my mother’s boss. Bear with me because the details, faded by time, aren’t sharp.

One evening in the mid-1980s, yours truly was bopping around the family homestead when my nosy little ears overheard my mom – then an elementary school teacher – griping about some perceived unfairness heaped upon her by the principal at her school. Again the details were sketchy because I only heard one half of the phone conversation. Still, I gleaned just enough to determine the principal was dead wrong for treating my mother that way.

Simply put, the principal needed to be reminded of his place.

I went back to my desk and started writing. The words trickled out, something whiny along the lines of “You better stop harassing my mom. She’s a good person and you’re totally wrong.” Who knows if the letter was written using good penmanship or if it was even coherent? All I knew is that my mom’s mean boss needed an attitude adjustment, and I was going to give it to him.

I wrote the letter, folded it, wrote Mr. Mean Principal’s name on the outside and gave it to my mom once she got off the phone. Pride filled me as I anticipated my mom’s boss reforming and treating her in a much more respectful manner. As with most plans devised by elementary-age kids, it seemed sure to work.

When you’re extremely young, your mind skips to the next big thing rapidly, so I’m not sure if my mom ever delivered that letter. I never asked what she did with the note. Then again I’m sure she didn’t deliver it, because no adult in their right mind would deliver a disorganized, stern warning letter from their young child to their boss. For all I know, that letter is decomposing in someone’s landfill today.

I could sit here and tell you I’ve never written another letter with that kind of emotion, but that’s obviously not true. Still, it figures that my first piece of persuasive writing would be intertwined with my mom. As I’ve said many times before, my mom is my hero and my role model. A great deal of what I am has its roots in her. This column is no different.

Truth be told, I’m pretty sure she doesn’t read the column you see today. My words can be pointed and touch some sore spots, and those types of works don’t seem to whet her literary appetite. That’s no problem. Under The Sun isn’t for everyone, not even the person who helped lay its foundation.

Looking back, I’ve given my mother (not to mention various other women) many bad gifts over the years. It’s not that I lacked effort or desire to do the right thing; I’m just not skilled at getting things people want. The flowers the World’s Greatest Kindergartner and I delivered Sunday were OK, but they probably didn’t do the trick.

In the end, returning the gift my mom helped nurture only seems fitting. It all started with her and a seemingly annoying boss, so it figures my persuasive writing should continue with her as well.

Happy Mother’s Day.