My mom with my sister Cheryl and brother Mike. I’m told this photo was taken Easter Sunday, 1959, which would mean that I was present, as my mom was in the early stage of pregnancy. I’m fairly certain my dad would have also been present as well. He would have been on the other end of the camera.

We wish you all a Happy Mother’s Day this coming Sunday. Mother’s Day 2019 has a special significance for our family. We lost our mother, Sonya Reagan, on April 22. It will be our first Mother’s Day without her. She passed peacefully, surrounded by family, in her home. She left us on her terms. She had been ill for some time. We thought we were going to lose her 13 months ago, but she rallied. Mainly, I believe, because she knew her husband Bob was not ready to let her go. They had a wonderful 20-year marriage. She had COPD (cardiopulmonary disease), and even with constant oxygen, simply breathing had become a challenge, and her daily life had become an overwhelming burden in the end. She was 80 years old. My mom was loving, compassionate, considerate, understanding, gracious, forgiving and kind. She was always a lady. I’m sure over the years, my sister, brother and I would have certainly embarrassed her with our behavior at times. However, she never, ever embarrassed us with hers. Mothers truly are the glue of the family unit, and I realize that my brother, sister and I are not alone in thanking God for gifting us with a wonderful one. My mom was born in Walters, down in the southwest corner of the state, and she came from a family of Methodist ministers. I’m going to guess that her extended family leaned toward emotional restraint. My dad’s family was never big on outwardly showing emotions either, which was OK with me. As a little kid, being hugged was never high on my priority list. Come to think of it, getting hugged was way down on the bottom. Regardless, my sister, brother and I never doubted that we lived in a loving home. My mom made family special. She was the second of four children. Only her younger sister, my Aunt Sally, remains with us. Both of my mom’s brothers were ministers. Her older brother Max was one of my heroes growing up. He was a master sergeant in the U.S. Army special forces (Green Berets) during the early Vietnam War years. As a little kid, I always marveled at the vast array of cool army-guy tattoos he had on his shoulders and arms. He later became a minister, and though I pestered him relentlessly as a child and adult, he refused to ever tell me a single one of his war stories. He always said it was a part of his life he wished not to dwell upon. My Uncle Max passed away eight years ago. My mom’s younger brother Ron died from a sudden and unexpected heart attack less than one month before my mom passed away. He also was a pastor. He and his wife Claudia built a large non-denominational church in the North Dallas/Ft. Worth area. They grew it from the ground up, and it stands today as a testament to their efforts. His passing came as a shock to us all. He was only 71 years old. He was full of life. We loved our Uncle Ron. My grandmother Lela was a hard-working practical woman. She didn’t have time for much nonsense in her life as I recall, but she could laugh and have fun. She loved her family. She and her husband Seburn moved to Altus when my mom was young, and they successfully owned and operated a service station on the east end of town for many years before his death. I never knew him. He died in 1963, and I have no memory of him. The family managed as best they could without him, and remained a strong family unit. I have fond memories of summer vacations traveling to Altus to visit my mom’s mother (in town) and dad’s father (out on the farm) during the 60’s. Seems like there were always family get-togethers with my cousins, aunts and uncles involved. My mom and dad married young. I was the youngest of three children, and she was only 21 years old when I was born. That certainly was not uncommon back then. My dad graduated from Oklahoma State University with a degree in journalism, and I was born in Pauls Valley, where he was working at the newspaper. My earliest memories were of my mother reading to me The Runaway Gingerbread Man every afternoon as I was laid down for my daily nap, while my older brother and sister were away at school. My mom and I wore that book out. If I think on it hard enough, I could still quote most of it. Birthdays and Christmas were special events for my mom. She spent hours and hours doing her best to come up with just the right presents for us. She knew our favorite cakes, and she made them from scratch each birthday. Gift giving was something of a conflict of interest in our family, because I’m pretty sure my dad woke up every morning with priority number one being to not spend any money that day. I don’t blame him. He came by it honestly. My granddad, John Reid, was a legendary tight wad. I loved him dearly and knew him well. He quite simply was an ultra-minimalist. Almost all of his stories to me centered on the virtues of not spending money. My dad didn’t have a prayer! It was understandable, because my granddad and my grandmother Reid, who passed before I was born, raised six kids on 160 acres of mostly dry-land cotton farm during the dust bowl days of the depression. He was a success. His family always had more than enough, while many American families of that era went without. That monetary conflict of interest must have created some friction in our family, but I can honestly say that in their 40-plus years of marriage I never heard my parents argue in my presence. My sister, brother and I had a great mom. For those of you who still have your mothers, we wish you the grandest of Mother’s Day celebrations with them. The rest of us have our memories.

–Barry Reid, Publisher