Mother’s Day is here, and until now, I’ve never truly shared much about my mother. I’ve mentioned her here and there, but today, I’m diving in headfirst.

My relationship with my mother wasn’t always smooth. But as I grew older and became a parent myself, I’ve learned to view her through a more compassionate and understanding lens. It’s easy to spot the flaws in someone, especially a parent, but choosing to focus on their strengths is where understanding comes, and love deepens.

I was a child of the 1960s, and my mother taught my brother and me the value of hard work. Our summers were spent tending a large garden — planting, watering, weeding, and eventually harvesting. Then came the canning season: the hottest days of the year spent peeling, blanching, and boiling. But nothing beats the satisfaction of hearing the lids “pop” as the jars sealed. It was a sound that signaled canning success!

Once the work was done, my mother loved to entertain. She was always hosting parties, and I can still see her buzzing around the house trying to complete last-minute tasks before her guests arrived, exclaiming, “Everything is coming to a head at once!” My brother and I still say that from time to time, a little tribute to her signature phrase.

She was always dressed to the nines — matching shoes, gloves, and hats for every season. Her closet was stacked high with boxes filled with carefully adorned creations: straw for summer, felt and wool for winter, embellished with netting, feathers, bows, pearls, you name it. And her heels! I loved sneaking into her closet to try them on, feeling momentarily elegant and grown-up.

Of course, she loved to shop. But she was incredibly frugal. If it wasn’t on sale, it wouldn’t come home. Sometimes she would shop all day and only come back with one or two things. For her, it was the thrill of the hunt. I can’t help but wonder if that’s where I get my own love of thrift shopping.

Then there was her crowning glory, her bouffant hairstyle. Styled regularly at the beauty shop, it was lacquered in place with so much hairspray you could practically hear the wind whistle through it. At home, the bathroom would become a sticky haze during touch-ups. And to preserve it all? Toilet paper. Yes, she wrapped her hair in it each night to keep the style intact. Whether it worked or not, she believed in it, and that was enough.

My mother was deeply devoted to her church. We attended services every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night for Bible study. I’ll never forget the Sunday she walked down the steps from church and the elastic in her half-slip gave way, pooling around her ankles. Without missing a beat, she stepped out of it, picked it up, and kept walking completely unphased.

As she grew older, my mother faced challenging transitions — physically, emotionally, and socially. Menopause and aging took their toll, and I watched her gradually retreat from the social life she once embraced so fully. Then came the hardest chapter: my father’s accident. Suddenly she was thrust into the role of caregiver, a responsibility that weighed heavily on her already fragile state. She served him faithfully, but it changed her in deep and lasting ways.

A few years after my father’s passing, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia — an aggressive form of the disease. We had just about a year from diagnosis to her death. During that time, through endless doctor visits, blood transfusions, and painful procedures, I saw a side of her I hadn’t fully appreciated before. She was brave. She was strong. She endured with grace.

At times, I felt frustrated when she needed me constantly, even when others offered to help. But eventually I understood I was her constant. I was the one who noticed subtle changes and spoke up on her behalf. She needed me, and truthfully, I needed her too.

In the final days, her body began to fail. I called the family in to say goodbye. My brother and I took turns at her bedside. I volunteered for the first shift, pulled a chair next to her bed, and told her gently, “I’m right here.” She nodded in acknowledgement, her eyes closing for the last time.

No, my mother and I didn’t always see eye to eye. At times, we struggled to understand each other. But in the end, what mattered most was that we stood by one another. Through laughter, loss, frustration, and fierce love, we shared a bond that deepened over time. This Mother’s Day, I honor not just who my mother was, but who she became — and who she helped me become.

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Rhonda S. Kelley is the executive director of the Juniata River Valley Chamber of Commerce.