When my parents moved into a new home on Eaton Drive, there were only older couples with no children. They were about three active boys. Later, my brother Brian and I were added to the mix. The worried neighbors became surrogate mothers. The Smiths lived across the street. When they moved to a small farm, Mrs. Smith adopted my cat , Fluffy. Because Mom was pregnant and was not to clean the litter box, Fluffy enjoyed the life of a barn cat, catching mice and sleeping on the back of their jersey milker. Mrs. Smith brought brown eggs from her chickens. She convinced me that they were chocolate-flavored. Often, she would bake cupcakes or cookies to prove her point.
Mrs. Pickle lived in the red-shingled house on the left side. She had a hanging two-person swing on her porch. I was often asked to join her on the swing on a hot summer evening. She would treat me to bold sweet tea.
On the right side, an older German woman lived. She was bringing the treats to share with my family.
As I grew, it was time to find an older Catholic to be my sponsor for Confirmation. My mom suggested Mrs. Holbin. She was a widow that cleaned and set the altar linens for the coming Sunday services. I was walking to the church on Saturdays to practice playing the organ to play for Mass. Mrs. Holbin always dressed in shades of deep purple in the winter and light lavender in the summer. I could see that color moving around the church. When she disappeared, I would explore the nooks and crannies of the church. I opened the confessional where the priest sat between two confessional closets.
He had a chair with arms. I imagined him leaning on the arm as he slid the grated door open.
I opened the baptismal font to splash holy water on my face and hands. The usher’s room had a glass box with coins in it. I wondered what it had been for. I would light a few votive candles in front of the statue of the Blessed Virgin, but never placed coins in the slot underneath.
Mrs Holbin was patient with my antics. Like all the rest of my surrogate mother figures, they helped me to grow in to a whole person. To all the women that have mentored and trained girls into women this Mother’s day is for you.
***. poem
Many Mothers in my Life
Mrs. Pickle with the swing and cold tea.
The German neighbor with cookie treats.
Mrs. Smith with fresh brown eggs.
“Use those first,” I would beg.
Mrs. Sister Mary Ellen carried me.
When I felt faint and couldn’t see.
But Mrs. Holbin was the best.
Her patience, I did test.
Allowed a child to explore.
Alter, choir loft many closed doors.
She would lean, I would play.
On the organ in the loft.
I heard her humming as she worked away.
Her voice was soothing when she talked.
Kneeling to pray before she left.
I was at home, not a guest.
I still remember
Her love of purple and a kind smile.
carolaspot@aol.com
copyright 5-4-2026
traveling up and down the blind highway 