Remembering Mom

 

Mother’s Day Reflections: Remembering Mom

My mother, Cynthia Josephine (Jarding) Stoltz, was born into a world that doesn’t exist anymore — one of 13 children raised by Carl and Anna (Arend) Jarding in Emery, South Dakota. When you come from a family that big, you learn early how to work, how to share, and how to get by without expecting much fuss or attention. Mom carried that practicality with her for all 93 years of her life.

I was the youngest of six — four brothers, one sister, and then me, arriving on January 10, 1955. By then Mom was almost 38 and Dad was nearly 44. My siblings were good kids, or at least that’s how I remember it. Maybe an occasionaly scolding but nothing major that I can remember.. We grew up in a home where expectations were clear, the rules were simple, and Mom kept everything running without ever making a big deal out of it.

Mom was a stay‑at‑home mother her entire life. She never worked outside the home, and the only driving I remember her doing was heading downtown for groceries. But she worked — make no mistake about that. Her work was the home. She fed us, clothed us, kept us steady, and made sure the house ran like a quiet, well‑oiled machine.

Monday was always wash day. I can still see that old wringer washer churning away, the rollers clicking as she fed clothes through. Then she’d head out back to hang everything on the clothesline behind the house. That was just the rhythm of life. Predictable. Steady. A kind of domestic heartbeat that kept our family going.

Mom wasn’t a huggy, demonstrative woman. I don’t remember her hugging anyone, and I never saw my parents show affection in front of us kids. But I never doubted she loved us. Her love was the kind that showed up in full lunchboxes, mended clothes, and a home that always felt safe. If we had a problem, we went to Mom. Dad worked hard, and when he came home he’d sit in his chair after supper and watch TV or read. We all knew to give him space. But Mom — she was the one who listened, the one who steadied us, the one who handled the small storms of childhood.

One of my favorite memories is from my senior year of high school, when I wanted to borrow the family car to go on a date.. I asked Mom if I could use the car. She didn’t say yes or no. She simply said, “You have to ask your dad.” It was his car, after all. It took every ounce of courage I had, but I asked him — and I don’t think he ever told me no. I always put two dollars of gas in it afterward, and I never abused the privilege. That moment taught me responsibility, respect, and maybe a little bravery too. Mom knew exactly what she was doing.

She also had a favorite saying, borrowed from Father Walter Liesch: “Stretch your feet to fit the blanket.” That was her whole philosophy in one sentence. Live within your means. Don’t complain. Make do. Be grateful. She lived that out every single day.

In her later years, after I was grown and divorced, I used to bring my younger kids down on Saturdays to spend time with Mom and my brother Roger. Those were some of the sweetest, simplest times — talking, listening to the Twins game on the radio, and ending the afternoon with a bowl of ice cream. No drama. No big speeches. Just the quiet comfort of being with Mom and Rog.

Looking back now, I realize no one shaped me more than she did. Not through hugs or long talks or outward affection, but through her steadiness, her work ethic, her practicality, and her unwavering presence. She taught me responsibility. She taught me gratitude. She taught me to love the Lord. She taught me how to keep going, even when life wasn’t easy.

Mom passed away on January 15, 2011, at the age of 93. But she’s still with me — in the way I approach problems, in the way I raised my own kids, in the way I try to live with a little humility and a lot of gratitude.

This Mother’s Day, I’m thinking of her. A quiet woman. A strong woman. A woman who stretched her feet to fit the blanket — and taught all of us to do the same.