This year feels different. Every year, I share a poem I wrote for my Mum decades ago. It’s simple, sentimental, and I’ve never changed a word, because it tells the truth of who she was. But today, I want to tell that truth in a different way. Not as a poem, not as a memory frozen in time, but as a living, breathing story, one that continues through me, through my sons, and now through my granddaughter.
My Mum was a character. Of that, you can be sure. While others marched for women’s lib, she was proudly “Mrs. Don McClure.” But don’t misunderstand, submissive she was not. She had her say, always. She was strong and sharp and wildly funny, and the role she most cherished was being a mother and a wife.
I never got to know her as an adult. She had a stroke when I was still a teenager, paralyzed, and left without speech. We had her with us for another ten years after that. Ten long, precious years. And while her body changed and her voice was taken, she didn’t change. Her soul, her humour, her fierce love, they were still right there.
But the world didn’t always see that. Watching people treat her as less than because of her physical disabilities was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness. It was like they couldn’t see the woman she still was. And that hurt, deeply. Because I could still see her. I could feel her. She was still my Mum. Still the same vibrant woman with the beehive hair, the sharp tongue, the heart as wide as the sky. Her body may have failed her, but her spirit never did.
And that too was a lesson. A painful one. But one I’ve never forgotten: never underestimate the person you think can’t speak, because sometimes, they’re the strongest voice in the room.
I wish my boys could’ve known her. I wish she could have held my granddaughter Addison. This is my first Mother’s Day as a grandmother, and my daughter-in-law’s first as a mother. But Mum is still with us. Because she shaped us.
Her laugh echoes in my memory. Her smile, so vivid I can see it still. And that beehive hairdo? Her signature. You could spot it across the Eaton’s store from a mile away. Honestly, it was like a lighthouse. She made sure you could find her.
The smells of home are still with me too. Mum rubbing Vicks on my back when I was sick. Fresh-baked cookies cooling on the counter. Clean laundry folded and stacked just so. These things might sound small, but they were enormous in what they taught me: love shows up in consistency, in care, in presence.
She had a strong sense of justice. If someone was being mistreated, she was there. She taught me early: stand up for the underdog. Speak up for what’s right, even if it makes people uncomfortable.
And speaking of uncomfortable… her honesty? Legendary. There was no sugar-coating with Mum. She told it like it really was. To everyone. Including me. She was beautiful. Not just in the way she looked, but in her joy, her loyalty, her passion for life and family. Even when her health failed, even when mobility and speech were taken from her, none of that changed her soul. Her essence, who she was, remained.
I wish I’d told her more. I wish I’d shown her more. The love, the gratitude, the way her strength carried me. I didn’t always say it. I didn’t always know how. And now, it’s too late to hear her voice in return. That kind of regret softens over time, but it never really disappears.
She was my anchor. My rock. The one place I could turn when nowhere else would do. And though she’s gone, her teachings stay with me. I use them every single day. They are my compass, my key.
And I want to take a moment for those who may not be sharing in the sweetness of today. For those whose relationships with their mothers were complicated, painful, or absent, Mother’s Day can carry a different kind of weight. I see that. I respect that. Whatever your story is, it matters. You’re allowed to feel whatever today brings.
For me, my mother was my soft place to fall. And now, I try to be that for others. Her story didn’t end with me, it continues with my sons. And now, with my granddaughter.
Oh, and about politics? She didn’t always agree with my father. And she sure wasn’t going to comply just because they shared a life together. Sometimes, she saw things a little differently, especially when it came to politicians. What a great lesson, don’t you think? That it’s okay to speak up. It’s okay to disagree. And it’s more than okay to hold your own.
To my Mum, thank you. Thank you for everything you gave me. Thank you for showing me how to love, how to fight, and how to laugh. I miss you deeply. But I carry you forward.
With love,
Nancy
Nancy's Notes 