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  • Writer's pictureClarke Wallace

(dEAR) mOTHERS dAY

Mother’s Day, the one holiday my mom, Louise Lockhart Wallace, disliked. When asked why, she’d clamp up. I believe she felt it was just too commercial.


My older sister, Anne, and I celebrated anyway, even when mom found other things to occupy herself.


Though my mother has been dead for some time, the thought of her still makes me smile. She and my dad tore down a barn on the farm property and used the wood and beams to build a house.


And there she was from the rich neighborhood of Toronto’s Rosedale. She fell in love with guy who was the clergyman at the church. He was from the village of Woodbridge, north of Toronto. They married and had one hell of a bang-up reception.


My mother had the wisdom, when I was growing up, not to badger me. As many mothers are wont to do. Like saying: “Where are you going?” “Who with?” Don’t be late.” “Where were you last night?” Phew.


I was 15, perhaps. I told mom over dinner one summer evening I’d be going up to visit my sister working the summer up north at the exclusive Bigwin Inn on the Lake of Bays. I’d hitchhike. She told me to be careful. I stayed for two weeks, eating free in the staff cafeteria.


Author’s comment: Mom had a deep warmness about her. I remember her hugs. Spontaneous ones. She came camping with us well into her seventies. She’d help gathering wood for the fire. Swim. Lots of canoeing. Sleeping on hard ground. What a woman was my mother.

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