Here's a letter to Mom that she will never read. . .

With all the hoopla about Mother's Day, I can't help but think about you today.

This is the day sons and daughters in more than a hundred countries celebrate their mothers. The French, though, won't celebrate till the end of the month. It won't be time for the big observance in Russia until November, and get this—in Norway, the special day came and went in February.

I know what your reaction to all this would be. You would simply say, “Well, it's nice to be remembered on any day.”

Back in the days when we were a family of six, living together in our little spot on the planet, we always tried to make the day special for you. Even though the homemade cards my brothers and I made lacked the professional touch of the store-bought variety, you seemed to appreciate the sentiments expressed in our efforts. At least you told us so.

After your death a few years ago, we came across several of those cards in drawers full of collected papers. You must have kept everything related to our childhoods. There were newspaper clippings, grade cards, photos, event programs, and all those cards stuffed into several drawers.

It doesn't take the calendar to remind me of you. I think of you in May, in November, in February, in all the months. Just yesterday I thought of you.

I noticed one book's spine was not aligned correctly on a bookshelf in our house. At first, I thought of our middle granddaughter. During a visit, the 20-year-old gal continues to do what she began doing as a child: she manages to push a book back or pull a book forward in its shelf before she leaves. She is sly, and I never catch her as she performs this little deed. Then after she's gone, I eventually notice and smile. It's her way of saying, “Got ya' again!”

Yesterday, as I was realigning the volume, I realized the significance of that book and was at once reminded of you. It was a copy of “The Three Musketeers.”

Chances are most men in their seventh decade don't keep books they enjoyed as youngsters, but Mom, I know you would understand—you who kept almost everything. Seeing the book yesterday was also seeing you reading it to me.

I never went to pre-school or kindergarten. I went directly into first grade at about the same time Elvis recorded “You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog.” You had taught me to recognize numbers, letters, and colors, and not to say “ain't” before I first boarded that big yellow bus bound for school. Most importantly, you had already introduced me to the wonderful world of reading.

“The Three Musketeers” was one of the books that you read aloud to me. In those days there was no TV in our house, and hearing you read the book during many evenings was an entertainment beyond what the screen could have offered. You passed along your love of reading to me, and that's one of the many reasons I am grateful to you.

I wish I could be with you today and present you with a card. If I could, I'd give you a homemade one for old time's sake.