A thought For Mother's Day.

Across the land people will be buying cards and bunches of flowers for their mothers this week. Duty visits will be paid; a lip service to the day that honours mothers everywhere. Many will be genuinely happy to honour this day, but how many people know of its origins?

The practice started long ago in Greece, well before the birth of Christ. March was the official start of spring and celebrations lasted for a few days, honouring Rhea, wife of Cronus and the mother of all the gods and goddesses. Later Rome was to adopt this practice, as they did with many Greek festivals. I doubt an ordinary mother was exalted at these feasts, they probably would have appalled by the drunken spectacles.

The earliest reference to "Mothering Sunday began in the 1600's in England. It usually fell on the fourth Sunday of Lent, a religious day to some people but also the spring solstice to those that still worshipped the ancient gods of the realm. The ancient druid tales were never written down, they passed by word of mouth through their priests and priestesses, for women were regarded as equal to men in their religion. The face of the "mother was displayed by the virgin, then the full-breasted body of a woman in her prime, followed by the hag, showing women in all their stages of life.

In England it became a day when children or young people could revisit their homes for just one day and see their mothers for a brief spell. In those days, children in service would often work the whole year round, even on high holidays such as Christmas and New Year's Eve. In keeping with the Christian tradition, a cake was baked to celebrate both the visiting children and the ending of Lent. This is the traditional Simnel cake, a rich fruitcake that often was kept until Easter and enjoyed by the all the remaining family.

It's hard to imagine in this day and age quite what the children (usually female), felt on seeing their own mothers after a gap of a year. There must have been tears and hugs all round. Many of these daughters must have travelled miles in appalling conditions, for employers would rarely offer any form of transport. I imagine these girls, some barely out of childhood, walking miles in the cold dawn air to be able to spend a few hours in the bosom of their family. How weary they must have felt on the long journey back to their employers and how many tears must they have cried on getting up early the next day with travel-worn feet?

The practice continued throughout the years, only dying out briefly in the years before the 2nd world war, when the Americans revived the old tradition. Although they celebrate it in May, rather than the 4th Sunday in Lent, which still applies to this day in Great Britain. The actual day is chosen by the dates on which Easter falls, this hasn't changed throughout the centuries.

My own mother was in service at the age of fifteen, sending money home to her widowed mother and keeping back a pittance to cover the cost of clothes. Fortunately her employers, two elderly ladies, provided the cost of her working clothes, not many girls in service were so fortunate. This was two years before the 2nd world war and my mother told me many wonderful stories of these times. Nowadays it would seem like slave labour, her working hours were from dawn to dusk. She'd rise early to light the fire in the drawing room and the kitchen. The cook would prepare breakfast while my mother would kindle the fires in the ladies bedrooms.

Another maid would assist them in dressing and they'd take breakfast in the drawing room. The staff wouldn't eat anything until their employers were through with breakfast. This was natural to my mother; she'd done the same as a young child with two sisters to get off to school. She learnt the art of serving food, delicacies she had never tasted, scrambled eggs, and bacon, kidneys, kippers and light fluffy pancakes. Even at breakfast the best silver platters and china were used. She learnt the difference between every kind of cutlery, for her employers were well off and often held dinner parties.

This knowledge was to serve her well in later years. She learnt about cooking as well as serving and could make a filling meal from the barest of scraps.

The best tales she told to us, her children, were the rules of etiquette. It would not be needed for many years but we remembered the lessons and I think we did her proud. She thirsted for knowledge of any kind and her employers were glad to teach her. They lived in the city of Bath, in the circle that would be venerated in later years. Both of these sisters had outlived their brothers and cousins who had served in the army abroad and brought back many fine treasures. There were exquisite vases from China and Japan, lacquered boxes, silken screens and ivory from India. Mother told me how scared she was to dust these treasures; some large and some so tiny she thought they could break in her hands. Her favourite piece, though, was the grand telescope where she glimpsed the stars. This was always my favourite story and left me with a longing to see them through her eyes.

Despite these many wonders, my mother was a person who missed her family, in particular her own mother who never really recovered from the privations of the 1st world war. At this point I have to say that my mother scorned all forms of sentimentality, her feet were placed firmly on the ground. The journey from Bath to her home in South Wales may not have been many in miles, but by train or bus it was a long haul. She had two days off at Christmas, a half-day every month (not enough to go home) and two days for Mothering Sunday. She was sixteen by now and helping the cook out, so the Simnel cake was made by her own hands.

She told me the story of her visit when I was about nine-years-old. The bus took her to the train station where it chugged along very slowly until it finally reached the station. She walked the two miles to her home, saving the money for her mother. Her journey started at 5 0'clock and ended at eleven am. Her only meal was two sandwiches put by from the night before. Her older sister had found work in the new cinema and her younger sister was still at school. Lunch was a scrappy affair, boiled potatoes with soggy cabbage and a bit of scrag-end of lamb. Her cake was supposed to last to Easter, but at teatime her sisters were hungry again and the cake was devoured in a few minutes. She didn't even eat one bite, watching her mother fill her empty belly was enough for her. She told me no more, suggesting it was a happy time, but I often wonder what she ate on the way back.

She married at seventeen, a wartime bride and followed her husband across many postings until he was shipped to France. From my younger aunty I learnt she sent half her pay to her mother. She became thin and pale. Her first child died soon after birth and her second child went the same way. The air was foul; mist and fogs entered her lungs and both babies died from bronchitis. A widow at twenty-two, she had one surviving child, my half-brother. Still she made it home each mothering Sunday, even though the trip took nearly a day. Her mother came first in her heart, something later generations cannot understand.

I don't know to this day what I would done in her position, my heart says my children and husband would have come first. But there was a war on and who knew if they would ever see their mothers again?

So when you give out your cards and flowers, or take your mother for a meal, remember that you have only one mother and she won't always be there. She doesn't ask for much, her pride is in her children and her grandchildren. One day a year is not enough, if she is like my own dear mother, passed away nearly three years ago, she loved the surprised visits from her children, gifts meant nothing, it was the smiling faces from her children that meant so much to her.
A phone-call, a letter, a visit and touch, it costs maybe a day out of your life, but to the mother who bore you and birthed you, the one that set your feet on your own path, doesn't she deserve more than a duty visit? Make a day when she doesn't expect it; show your love, not just on Mother's Day, but every day of the year.