RIGHT OF CENTER: A MISANTRHOPE'S PAEAN TO MOTHERS

There's something about Hallmark holidays that bring out the misanthrope in me.

It's not that I oppose acknowledging mothers, fathers, grandparents, bosses, secretaries, sweethearts and anybody else who has a holiday named after them. It's just that a designated day obligates us to buy a card and gift on a day we might otherwise not care to. I mean let's face it, there are some days you don't appreciate your boss, and just because it's Boss's Day, you shouldn't have to pretend he's a great guy.

So it is, in a different way, with mother's day. I've discussed this with my wife and my mom before, so I think they understand my sentiments, whether they agree with them or not. I hope they won't take offense, then, when the bouquet of flowers and the card aren't forthcoming. That said, no one should confuse my intentions of writing this column. It is, after all, the day before the holiday, and I wrote this column on Thursday. Nothing written here should be construed as an endorsement of Mother's Day or, God forbid, as evidence that I'm anything but a curmudgeon.

Yet I can't help but swell with profound affinity for the moms in my life. I remember all too well the curly headed little boy who preferred to play by himself than to endure the badgering of older siblings. The lad cherished the special time when the big kids were at school and the 4-year-old had Mom all to himself.

She used to make pointed hats out of newspapers and cut swords out of cardboard, transforming her little boy into a pirate, who imagined adventures in which he was the hero calling the shots. They also used to play a card came called Concentration, of which the boy had little. For some reason he still managed to win a few games.

Several years later, Mom would bring him a drink as he practiced hour after hour at the basketball goal in the driveway. He had grown too quickly and was uncoordinated. Still, he had a deep-seated desire to be a basketball player, thus the endless sessions in the driveway. Mom used to shoot games of horse when older siblings -- the two brothers were wrestlers anyway -- were too busy to play. She never missed a game, even when it conflicted with wrestling meets. Often Dad would go to one event in the truck, and Mom would take the car to the other.

Then there were the times -- too many to be proud of -- when he found some kind of trouble in school. Most of the time, his delinquency earned him discipline at home and at school. But there were the times when he was wrongly accused, and he said so. In such instances, she unfailingly stood by her youngest.

Later still, his individuality drove him to activities most people thought rebellious and unsociable. Yet Mom always encouraged him to think and act for himself. She praised his uniqueness, from which emerged a strong will and a security that resisted the potential pitfalls of peer pressure. To this day, her youngest continues to think he has a special place in her heart. It doesn't matter that his brothers and sister probably think the same thing. Through all the rebellion and mischief, she loved him unconditionally.

There came a point in the young man's life when he found someone else. The courtship was brief, and the 19-year-old married the girl only months after it began. Mom remained supportive, having the good sense to realize if he made a mistake, he'd have to live with it. Her child-rearing was done.

But he didn't make a mistake, and Mom embraced his new wife as her own daughter. The wife truly complemented the son. She was sweet, kind and beautiful. He was a little rough around the edges. She was an artist with little time for the classic philosophers he was forever reading from.

As the years passed, they grew together. The bride proved to be a loving helpmate, bringing out in the son a sense of responsibility that was lacking in his quest for individuality. Again he was transformed, this time from an aimless vagrant into a hard-working, conscientious man.

After a few years, the couple found themselves rearing children of their own: three, with another on the way. The children, Mom's grandchildren, are great kids in no small measure because they too have a great mom.

The curly headed little boy now is a graying father struggling to provide for his family. His is a high-stress job that keeps him too long away from home. The house needs work, the car has seen better days and too many bills go unpaid. Yet he knows he's a wealthy man. From his earliest memory, he's been loved. Now he sees in his children's eyes the same secure disposition that derives from their mother's love.

Mom, Loree, you're the best. I love you both.

~Jay Eastlick is the news editor of the Southeast Missourian.