- Robert St. John pays tribute to his mother, a true force, steady and sure, always taking him home.
My first clear memory of her is not a happy one. It’s when she came into my brother’s bedroom and told us our father had just passed away. I was six. My final memory of her isn’t good either. She was in the hospital, unable to talk, unable to recognize me. It was just two weeks ago and the morning of my 63rd birthday. Even though those first and last memories aren’t joyful ones, I believe it’s the time in between, “the dash,” that matters. And she made all 91 years in that dash, count.
She was a single mother before single mothers were cool. Left with two boys to raise, she went back to school and got her master’s degree. She taught art lessons in our home to help make ends meet, sold her art, and eventually began teaching in local schools. She taught for 50 years and retired at 80.
She was tough. Two weeks after her husband died, Martin Luther King was assassinated. Two months later, Bobby Kennedy was killed. A few weeks after that were the Chicago riots. It must have seemed like the world was falling apart around her. Through it all, she remained strong. She had solid, loving friendships, and I was blessed to have grown up surrounded by those friends and their children. I can’t imagine having a better childhood. We didn’t have much money, and material things were sparse, but there was one thing that rose above all else: love.
She knew she couldn’t play backyard football and had no interest in hunting, but she figured she could learn how to fish. In 1971, three years into widowhood, she made one of the greatest single-mom moves ever and bought a fish camp. I have no idea where she got the money, but she made it happen. It wasn’t much— a mobile home a few blocks off the water— but to my brother and me, it was paradise. The three of us set crab traps in the morning and checked them at dusk. We fished, and water-skied, and swam. It was young-boy heaven, and everything in the world felt right. I probably never appreciated her sacrifice as much as I should have.
Looking back, I can only remember a few times in my childhood when I regretted not having a father. That’s because of her, and the community that surrounded us. The men and women in our neighborhood took great interest in my brother and me and went to great lengths to help raise us. But the main reason I rarely felt fatherless is because she was tough, committed, and did a fine job filling both parenting roles.
She never remarried. She dated a little, but she always said that no one would ever replace our father. Even though she was alone, she rarely let on that it was difficult. She was fiercely independent and determined to make a life for us the best she could. It’s only now, with the clarity of time, perspective, and kids of my own that I can fully appreciate the strength it took to carry that burden alone.
As the only widow in the neighborhood—for several neighborhoods actually—she designated herself the self-appointed in-house counsel for recently widowed or divorced women. I can remember going with her to several houses as she visited and offered comfort and advice (one thing she was never short of) to women who were going through what she had already dealt with.
In the early years of my marriage, my mother and wife didn’t always see things the same way. They were both fiercely independent, strong-willed women, each with her own approach to life. Like many mothers, she struggled with letting go. But over time, that initial tension softened, giving way to a mutually abiding respect. In the last two decades of my mother’s life, my wife became a dedicated caretaker, a role for which I am deeply grateful. Their bond grew, not out of ease, but out of the shared love they had for our family. In her final weeks, my wife sat at her bedside, reading Bible verses, playing recorded hymns, and quietly reminding her how much her two boys loved her.
She was a teacher, an artist, and a friend to many. She loved her church, but above all else, she was a mother. That was her most important role, the one she carried out with grit, determination, and love. She and I spent her last healthy decade sharing breakfast three days a week. As a kid, breakfast was just fuel—something quick before rushing out the door. But as we got older, those meals became something else entirely. It wasn’t just about eating; it was about sitting together, reflecting, and taking a little time before the day got away from us.
In the same way she laid paint on a canvas with purpose, she lived her life with a strong hand, unwilling to let circumstances dictate her choices—always creating, always moving forward. People will say, “It’s a blessing.” She probably would have said the same, as she wouldn’t have wanted to live the way she did in her final year. She’s finally with my dad again. Therein lies the true blessing.
As I rode the hospital elevator down after saying my final goodbyes to her two weeks ago, it struck me: 63 years earlier, to the day, we were in that same building, at that same moment, but for a very different reason. I had just been born. In that instant, her life must have seemed full of promise and ease. She might have imagined the road ahead as bright and smooth. But life had other plans. Fate threw its share of storms, yet she faced every one of them with the unyielding grit and determination that always defined her. Standing in that hospital, it hit me: life had come full circle. What began with her bringing me into the world had quietly come to an end, with me standing there, letting her go, as if everything we had shared was always leading to that moment.
The timing of something like this can never be good, but it actually couldn’t be much worse. I am in Italy and begin hosting four separate groups of Americans over the course of four weeks, tomorrow. For the last few years, my brother and I have had a plan in place just in case. She was a hard-working woman. She raised two hard working boys who each started earning money around 12-years old. She would insist that I fulfil my commitment and do the work. I return in mid-November. The funeral will be held soon after.
In my mind’s eye, I still see her at the fish camp, behind the steering wheel of that little bass boat as we navigate the Pascagoula River. The traps just checked, and a small Igloo cooler full of live crabs at our feet. It’s just the three of us—a mom and her two boys—living life together. In those moments, nothing else mattered. There was no weight of the world, no burden of being widowed or fatherless, no struggles that awaited us back home. It was just us, on the water, savoring the simplicity of being together. Beautiful.
I hear that tiny outboard, the sound of the waves on the bow, and the smell of the brackish air mingling with the briny scent of crabs in the ice chest. Those moments, small as they seemed then, are the ones I hold closest to my heart now. We didn’t need much—just each other, a summer afternoon, and the promise of a seafood dinner at the end of the day.
She made those moments possible—the ones that felt effortless but were built on quiet strength and work ethic. She taught me that even in the face of hardship, there is joy to be found, especially in the simple things. And life goes on.
Until it doesn’t.
As I look back on her life, I see it clearly. She was right. Life isn’t about grand gestures or extravagant plans; it’s about the steady presence of someone who loves you, who keeps you moving forward, even when the waters are rough.
I’ll carry those memories with me for the rest of my days.
In the quiet corners of my thoughts, she’s still behind the wheel of that little boat, guiding us through the currents, her hair blowing in the breeze, the sun setting behind the cypress. My brother and I are in the other two seats, the day’s catch in the cooler, water lapping against the hull, and the sky painted with the final hues of day. We are headed home, just the three of us, as we always were—her leading the way, always steering us safely back, no matter the storm.
That’s who she was. A true force, steady and sure, always taking us home.
Onward.
This Week’s Recipe: Robert’s Version of His Mom’s Stuffed Peppers
I probably ate stuffed peppers 90% of the birthdays in the first half-century of my life. Stuffed peppers, mashed potatoes, and English peas. Almost all my fondest childhood memories are set around meals in my home or the homes of one of my grandparents. I never gave them much thought back then, but a shared meal is something that I cherish, and never take for granted these days.
Ingredients
1 Tbl bacon fat
1 cup yellow onion, small dice
2 tsp steak seasoning
1 tsp kosher salt
2 Tbl sugar
1 tsp black pepper, freshly ground
2 tsp fresh garlic, minced fine
¼ tsp dry basil
¼ tsp dry oregano
⅛ tsp dry thyme
2 Tbl tomato paste
1 egg, slightly beaten
1 ½ pounds lean ground beef
1 28-ounce can diced tomatoes, drained very well
6 bell peppers, tops and seeds removed
Instructions
Preheat oven to 375 degrees
In a small sauté pan, heat the bacon fat over medium heat. Add onions, steak seasoning, salt, sugar, and pepper and cook 3-4 minutes. Add the garlic, basil, oregano and thyme, and cook one more minute. Stir in the tomato paste and cook 4-5 minutes, stirring constantly.
Remove mixture from the heat and transfer to a large mixing bowl. Allow to cool completely.
Once the mixture has cooled, mix in the egg, ground beef and drained tomatoes. Do not overmix. Fill each pepper with the ground beef mixture.
Place peppers in a casserole dish and bake for 20-25 minutes (cook times will vary depending on the size of the peppers). Baste with juices from the bottom of the casserole twice during the cooking process. Check the center for doneness. Remove and serve.
Yield: 6 servings
