Appreciating the value of my mother’s influence

Her name was Margaret Lyon Morgan. I never told her how grateful I am for being my mother, but now I remember and honor her.

Although a 19th-century poem by William Ross Alice is seldom remembered, there are lines in it often quoted: “For the hand that rocks the cradle is the hand that rules the world.”

Fathers and men may think they rule the world, but it is mothers and women who shape it because they usually are our primary caregivers from the moment we enter the world through our growing-up years. The best mothers nurture a healthy and sane world; the worst a world of chaos and confusion.

Over the years, I have come to discover more about who I am and what I value from my mother’s influence. Born in times when women were not encouraged to pursue their dreams, she married at an early age and spent her time and energy raising five children. She did so in a quiet and unobtrusive way, taking care of everyone else but often neglecting herself.

The daughter of a minister, she grew up in Indiana, becoming one of the first women in that area to attend a school that today we might consider a junior college. She wanted to be an actress but ended a wife and mother.

She was a kind and generous person. I don’t remember she ever yelled or punished me, though I probably deserved it. She was, in short, a good person.

But there was something about her that now seems to me to be an unfulfilled part of her life — to be an actress. She channeled this desire into giving what was called “dramatic readings” or stories wherever called upon, whether in church or community gatherings.

But it was on long train rides to see my grandparents in Colorado that she told stories to ease the boredom of the journey. I can still see her performing and even remember a few of the stories. I didn’t know then, but I know now that I owe my love of telling and writing stories to her.

My mother’s presence remains with me still, in ways I seldom realize but now see clearly whenever I share a story or speak a kind word to someone who needs it.

My mother died far too early at the age of 66. I never thanked her, but I do so now in words from a poem I wrote many years ago.

Mother, I will remember for you now: the long train rides to Denver where you amused the crowd with stories of the bald-headed man or life in sin-free Indiana, or the long nights you sat by my bed wondering if I would survive the summer. You may rest at last. Women: Listen to this one man-child: Do not forget your names, do not always live for others. Live for yourself while you can, and we will call you blessed.

John C. Morgan Columnist