Her name was June. But of course she was always Mom to me. Only once did I call her June, just to test the waters, when I was a daring teenager, young and oh-so foolish. Once!

But this piece is not about that particular event. In celebration of Mother’s Day (which I feel should be much more than once a year) I have a story; a true story about my Mom.

Although I am loathed to advertise big businesses I’ve always entitled the tale as ‘The Church of Tim Hortons’.

But first I need to set the stage, of course.

Dad was a Catholic, through and through – his Dad, my grampa (a very cool dude!) was the only one to marry, be fruitful and multiply. Grampa’s brother was a priest, his sister was a Carmelite nun.

My Mom on the other hand was, well I’m not sure – Protestant, Anglican, Presbyterian? It didn’t much matter when affairs of the heart got involved. She and my Dad were in love and back in the ’40’s marrying Dad at the altar (and not in the vestibule of the church) meant there were lessons to learn from a priest, convert to Catholicism and just sign these papers here promising that all your offspring will be born and raised in the Catholic faith. Whatever you say, father, just as long as I can live my life with the man I love. And that’s exactly what she did. I think she knew what she was in for, sort of.

A year after the sanctified nuptials Sharon was born, 1 year later Sandy, next year me. Poor Mom: a newborn, one in diapers and another refusing to be potty-trained. All Scorpios (if you’re into astrology this is sheer madness). But wait, there’s more – the Korean War was a’raging and my Dad was over there. Just as Mom was catching her breath, diaper duty finally over and Dad back home, my long-awaited brother arrived.

And on the seventh day? She always did it up right. The girls in ringlettes, decked out in our Sunday best. Even wee Johnny had a vest and bowtie that matched our crinolined dresses, all courtesy of Mom’s talents.

Things changed when I was about 16, when our church added a Saturday night service. Perfect for Dad with all Sunday to relax. For obvious reasons Saturday night was NOT an option for me. Mom chose the noon mass on Sunday and whatever kids were home would go with her. I’m not quite sure when the pattern began but here’s the scenario:

St. Andrews was 10 minutes away yet at 11:50 I would still be frantically trying to get Mom out the door. I absolutely hated to be late for church. All the back seats were taken. You had to walk down the aisle to the front, all the while the priest in mid-liturgy. Sometimes he’d stop talking and watch as you tried to creep into your front row pew. Try as I might we always left our house late. As Mom drove out of the neighbourhood, she would say, “you don’t really want to go to church late, do you?” Natch!

She’d turn left not right and off we went to Tim Hortons. For almost an hour we’d sit and talk, drink coffee and she treated me to a donut. Then quickly checking her watch she would announce that mass was almost over, we’d jump into the car and make our way to the church. The congregation would be flowing out, the priest at the door with the weekly pamphlet, glad-handing them out. She’d pull up, I’d jump out to retrieve the literature, then homeward bound. Once there I’d leave the printed page on the stereo, laying down the evidence, as it were. This went on for years, actually many more than I was aware of.

Mom passed away suddenly at age 66. Us kids drove to the church together. After the funeral service we all piled into the van and I looked at my sisters and brother, feeling that it was time they knew our secret, and said, “so now do we go to Mom’s real church?” In unison, to my total shock, they said “the Church of Tim Hortons?”. We laughed, we cried and then silently made our way to the donut shop.

We never told my Dad. He was never the more wiser…or was he.

So on May 9th I will do what I have done every Mother’s Day since 1992. I will celebrate the magnificent woman that I was so fortunate to call my Mom, and do it with a coffee & a Bavarian Cream donut (her fav).

Jackie Moad will forever cherish and celebrate the unique, amazing woman that was her mother, June. Happy childhood memories abound, keeping her eager and energized for farming that 20-acre slice of paradise on earth.

Jackie Moad.
World Traveler.
Environmentalist.
Organic Farmer.

See all articles by Jackie Moad