LAKE LIVING

BECKY REED

My mom, Becky Reed, devoted years of her life to raising me and my younger brother and sister with a great deal of care and nurture. She put strong emphasis on teaching us to be considerate of others and to make good decisions.

Now that the three of us are out of the house (for the most part), her guidance during our early years is having more effect than ever.

My mother's influence did not stop with the three children under her roof, however. Many of the children and teens our family have come into contact with over the years consider my mom to be like a second mother to them as well. By being available, hospitable and attentive, she has acquired respect, dependence and some creative nicknames from her "other children."

My mom's role as a youth group leader at our church paved the way for outreach to adolescents in the community. She is a favorite go-to person for the youth group members and visitors at weekly meetings, socials, camps and service projects. When the teens want a home to invade, my mom opens the doors, playing both chaperone and hostess. Many of the students' parents have appreciated her availability as a sounding-board or caretaker, telling their teenagers to "go talk to Becky" when there is a decision to be made or disagreement to be settled.

One of the most important ways in which my mom has earned her title as second mother is by spending time with community teens dealing with difficult family situations and backgrounds. She often will transport a carload of youth needing a ride to church, after-school sports or McDonald's. Many times they are youth who wouldn't otherwise have the option of doing those activities and can have fun under my mom's supervision.

I have observed what a great blessing it is for a community to have mothers willing to spread their love beyond their own household to help meet the needs of other children and families. My mom's willingness to do this has made a significant difference in many lives and is sure to leave a far-reaching legacy.

SUE DYE

Some of the things that I am thankful for of my mother:

Good cook -- I have been blessed with tasty food.

Provider -- I never lacked in the basic needs.

Protector -- From all things evil.

Nurturer -- Encouraging me to better myself as a person.

Forgiver -- Of my shortcomings (followed by more nurturing).

Honest -- You know where you stand with Mom.

Consistent -- A "no" today will be a "no" tomorrow.

One fond memory: I remember many summer vacations spent in north Georgia, where my mom grew up on a farm. It was a great place to have fun outdoors and not worry about getting dirty.

There was a creek, and there were lots of animals, home-cooked meals, walks through the woods, brilliant starry nights, the porch under a tin roof on rainy days, BB guns and lots of family. I was so glad when my mother was recently able to introduce my children to this special place.

DEBBE CREAMER

My mom has given me a great appreciation for all things homemade -- from quilts and clothes to cookies and cakes to any sort of decoration you can imagine. When we were little, my sister and I had new homemade dresses to wear to church. There was always a variety of baked goods to munch on. Our rooms were decorated with puffy fabric wall hangings in the shapes of teddy bears and hot air balloons.

Not only did she do it all, she let us help. As soon as my sister, brother and I were coordinated enough to mix flour and sugar in a bowl, we helped in the kitchen; and as soon as we could safely handle scissors and glue, she taught us to make all sorts of crafts.

My mom's craftiness extends to the parties she threw us for our birthdays when we were little. When it came to putting on a kid's party, she thought of everything. She spent an enormous amount of time making decorations and coming up with games and activities for the guests and putting everything together.

One year, I had a "Wizard of Oz" party. There was a giant chalk rainbow on the driveway, and the yellow brick road led up the front steps. She braided my hair in pigtails, gave me ruby red slippers to wear and made a cake decorated with m&m's in the shape of a rainbow.

There was also the mystery party where she made invitations with invisible ink that had to be "baked" in the oven in order for the writing to show up. My sister's backward birthday party is still talked about by her friends as one of the most fun birthday parties they went to as kids. She gave all her guests presents and everyone, including Mom, wore their clothes backward and ate cake with the icing on the bottom and upside-down ice cream cones under the table.

Because of my mom, I have some of the most wonderful childhood memories a girl could ask for. Whenever I have kids I want to do my best to raise them just like she raised us.

NANCY WILLIAMS MARTIN

By Phyllis Martin

I think we most appreciate our parents when we become parents ourselves. I know this is what happened to me when I became a mother for the first time. As a child, I knew my mother took care of me, but I didn't really understand the full meaning of being responsible for the well-being of someone who is totally dependent upon you.

My first child, Lesley Ann, was born 5 ½ weeks premature. When I went into labor early and had to be transported to Virginia Baptist Hospital in Lynchburg, I was very scared. My parents drove from Snow Creek to be with me. My mother reassured me that everything would be okay.

I was in labor for 25 hours, without pain medication, and just past 1 a.m. on Oct. 10, 1990, my baby girl was born. My parents were tired from worry and lack of sleep. They came into my room and I told them they had a granddaughter. I will never forget the look of joy on their faces.

My baby had to stay in the hospital for seven days in the neonatal unit. On the day the doctor called to say she could go home, I called my mother to tell her. I was overjoyed but not prepared for a new baby. We had moved into a new home only two weeks before and I had not been able to get everything I needed.

My mother took over and while we went to get Lesley Ann, Mama was getting together what I would need. She picked up a bassinette borrowed from a friend. She bought diapers, wipes, powder, T-shirts, and had everything ready at my house for when we got home. Mama was there to tell me what to do for my new baby.

She came over every day for a week to check on us and give me advice. Sometimes she would take over with the baby and tell me to go take a nap. She told me to sleep when the baby sleeps and that I should have things normal, as far as sound, so that the baby would get used to it and sleep with the television on, the dishwasher running, and even the vacuum cleaner going.

Looking at my new baby, I realized for the first time just how dependent she was on me and that she needed me in order to live, not just before birth but after and for always. I also realized that I needed my mother just as much. Mama took care of me when I was a baby and took care of me when I had my baby ... She did the same for my brother Stephen when his son, Westlee, was born. She has since repeated this two more times with the birth of my son, William, and youngest daughter, Nicole.

My daddy, Myrl Martin, always told me that he felt Mama was the perfect mother when we were little. He provided for us so that she could be a stay-at-home mom. I think some people are born to be mothers. My mom, Nancy Williams Martin, is one of them.

I love you, Mama. Happy Mother's Day.

MARY KUHN

My 8-year-old son has reached the age where he doesn't want me to show affection toward him in public. I'm having a hard time relating because I was never that way with my mom. Never.

Growing up in an Army family, I moved every three or four years. So, as a kid, I didn't have much opportunity to develop deep or long-lasting friendships. The one close and constant friend I always had was my mom.

My mom was (and still is) awesome. She sewed my clothes for school and church, dresses for dance recitals, matching mother-daughter jumpers, even tiny outfits for my Barbies. I never once had a store-bought Halloween costume (and she's now ensuring my son doesn't either). My mom volunteered at school, attended every Girl Scout meeting, every field trip, every sporting event. And it never once bothered or embarrassed me to have her around.

When I was a junior in college at the University of Kansas, my parents semi-retired to Smith Mountain Lake. Instead of having them an hour down the road, they were half way across the country. When I came to the lake to visit them over holidays, I didn't know another soul. It was my mom who introduced me to my soul mate over Thanksgiving break my senior year. My husband and I will celebrate our 13th wedding anniversary next month.

My mom and I share a fondness for cooking, gardening, travel, wine and Oprah Winfrey, but there's nothing that bonds us more tightly than our love of Kansas basketball. And, as my dad and my husband will attest, that affection became a full-fledged obsession in late March and early April when the Jayhawks made their run for the NCAA title.

For weeks, my mom and I scoured the Internet to share stories. We cleared our schedules to watch every minute of every one of KU's tournament games. We prayed, paced and rung our hands when the Jayhawks were down by nine points with two minutes to play in the title game against favored Memphis.

And, finally, we hooted, hollered and hugged when they rallied at the end, sent the game to overtime and won 75-68.

For the past 37 years, my mom has shared with me incalculable amounts of wisdom -- particularly precious now that I'm a mother. She's fun, spirited and generous (especially with the free babysitting).

I don't think I could possibly show my mom how grateful I am, but I'll gladly try with a big hug and a kiss -- any time, anywhere.

MARIA CARMEN GARRIDO

I'm a lucky guy and have a great deal for which to be thankful -- lovely wife, nice home, great job at SML, all the stuff one could ask for.

Ultimately, Mom created the foundation for it all: great education -- Mom took care of that; work ethic -- thanks for that, too; appreciation for life-long learning -- yep, Mom gave me that. She set me up for all of it by providing a nurturing home environment that fostered life-long learning and hard work balanced with compassion for friends and family.

My mom moved from Spain to the United States about 40 years ago and embraced life in America from day one. Life wasn't always easy for her, but she did her best to ensure mine was. Mind you, she didn't spoil my brother or me, rather she made sure the basics were taken care of and that we appreciated all the extras we could get.

Mom taught us that compassion for family and friends, learning every day, embracing new experiences, and making the most of each day all trump pursuit of stuff -- GI Joes and Atari games then, Plasma TVs and Wii games now -- for which we had (have) a fleeting passion. The experience of a week-long visit with family in Spain lasts far longer than the excitement of getting that new TV: That's my mom's perspective anyway, and mine, too.

I also have my mom to blame for my nerdy love of math. Abuelo (Mom's father) was a passionate math and science teacher, and Mom made sure I spent plenty of time absorbing his love for these favorite things. School was always the No. 1 priority for Mom (and as a result, me), but she made a point of exposing me to lots of different experiences that make for a rich life (though the guitar lessons didn't stick).

Although I moved across the country from Mom for a while, I was thrilled when she decided a few years ago to join us in Southwest Virginia. And Mom's now like a best friend rather than a mom; having her nearby enriches our life in new ways. Better yet, Mom and Kim (my wife) love each other like best friends. I told you I was a lucky guy -- more proof still.

GENIE SHORES

If you stitched together all the fabric, thread and elastic my mother has put to use in her 75-plus years, surely it would stretch half way to the small town in North Carolina where I grew up and where my mother's creativity touched every one in our family and many outside of it.

From the custom coloring books she drew for her children to the appliances she made from cardboard boxes for my children, there was nothing my mother could not sew, paint, create, draw or imagine.

Her work always was as precise and meticulous as the blueprints she drew to scale for the remodeling of our kitchen (the architect was floored).

Yards of fabric, piles of patterns, bins of buttons and spools of thread were staples in our house. I can still hear the sound of a surging sewing machine or scissors slipping slowly and precisely across crisp cotton. I recall spending countless hours waiting for her in the car outside Clyde's Fabric Shop.

With each school year came new dresses and more costumes. I remember floating across the dance studio floor in the tutu with red hearts scattered across the netting. My brother thought he was Superman for way too long, probably because he looked so much like the "real" one in his bright red cape and blue tights.

As a teenager, I didn't want my mother to make my clothes. Although her creations never looked "homemade," I wanted to dress like my peers and preferred shopping at the local department store.

If she was disappointed, it didn't show. If she knew I never carried the red-white-and-blue pocketbook she needlepointed for me, she never let on. I don't recall my mother making many things for herself, my father or brothers. Mostly she sewed for me. And if I took her talent for granted, others did not.

Thanks to her, my stylishly dressed Barbie dolls were the envy of my friends. Her friends commissioned her to make their children's Christmas stockings modeled after the ones hanging by our chimney. Folks around town marveled at her talent.

She made the black backless pantsuits my friend and I wore in the high school talent show (they were the high point of the performance). She took apart and remade her own wedding gown, removing and resewing rows of tiny beads and pearls so I could wear it on my wedding day.

My mother hit full sewing stride when she became a grandmother. The clothes she made for my daughters were nothing less than works of art. But she didn't stop there. She dressed their dolls and our dog, and once made a blouse from an old tablecloth for a friend of mine.

As a young single mother, she spared me the angst that comes when your child tells you she needs a costume ... tomorrow. Peasant dress -- no problem. Dorothy from the "Wizard of Oz" -- done. I never had to worry about the ballet costume falling apart or what my girls would "be" for Halloween.

Perhaps her masterpiece was the matching flower girl dresses with the hand-painted collars she created for my daughters to wear in their aunt's California wedding. There have been more expensive dresses to parade through the Beverly Hills Hotel, but I'm sure there have been none as beautiful or fashioned with such care.

In another day, my mother might have been a concert pianist, an architect, a fashion designer or a surgeon.

In her day, she was all that and more to us. She received few accolades and, except on rare occasions, no pay.

Through the years I've asked my mother to teach me to sew.

"I don't have the patience," she replied so many times.

What she really meant was that I didn't have the patience to learn. And she was right.

Mama still loves to cross-stitch, but she doesn't sew much anymore. Last year at Halloween, she whipped up a "Star Wars" outfit for my 26-year-old daughter, Olivia, to wear in a costume contest. Olivia loved it (she won), and my mother loved that she loved it.

With a yardstick, a needle and thread and a remarkable imagination, my mother could make anything or make her family members into anybody they wanted to be. But mostly she made us glad she was our mother.

ROSE BORSLIEN

By Laurie Edwards

When I was 15, I almost lost my mother. Some of the details of that day are foggy, others I recall vividly. It was a day none of us want to remember, but I do remember it as a day my mother showed how strong and resilient she was, traits she exhibits to this day.

It was a Tuesday. I was in driver's education class. The office secretary called the classroom over the loudspeaker and said I needed to report to the principal's office. I couldn't remember doing anything wrong, but all the kids "oohed" as I walked out the door. "Somebody's in trouble!" one of them shouted.

The secretary handed me the phone. It was Mom. She was about six months pregnant and was being admitted to the hospital. "Why?" I asked. Then I wished I hadn't. Mom had preeclampsia, she could barely feel any fetal movement and the baby's heart rate was very low. The doctors needed to take the baby by emergency caesarean section or Mom, the baby or both could die.

Walking back to class was excruciating. When I got home, my sisters -- Christine, 16, and Erika, 1, -- and I visited Mom at the hospital. She had only seen our newest sister for a moment after the surgery before she was wheeled away to the neonatal ICU.

We weren't allowed to see the baby yet, not until Dad got home. He was in the U.S. Navy, aboard the U.S.S. Saipan. His ship had just pulled into Israel when he got the call. He was flying home as fast as the plane could carry him.

That night, us girls were home alone. The ladies from the church had heard the news and brought over casseroles and pies. I can't remember what kind. I'm not sure I tasted any of it while I was eating. All I know is that our hearts were heavy.

Our mother, who was always a favorite classroom mom, as she would make cakes for any occasion, was alone in the hospital, her life and our newest sister's life hanging in the balance. She was our Girl Scout troop leader, traipsing with us through the woods and sliding down mud hills. But most of all, she was our mother, who cooked the best casserole I've ever eaten, who took photos everywhere we went so nothing could be forgotten and who loved us unconditionally, no matter how we misbehaved.

Dad arrived home two days later. He and Mom went to see their newest arrival, whom they named Felicia Nissa. She was 1 pound, 13 ounces. The smallest diapers at the hospital were enormous in comparison. Dad could slide his wedding ring all the way up her arm.

They would visit her every day over the next seven weeks. Felicia lost weight, eventually dropping to a single pound. My parents had her baptized in the hospital. She suffered a stroke. Felicia's tiny heart stopped beating one night while my parents were visiting her. But she came back to us again.

It was the hardest time I think Mom, Dad or any of us had gone through. But no matter the pain in our minds and hearts, Mom and Dad were still there for us older girls as we worked through our day-to-day school and extracurricular activities.

Having no children of my own, I can only imagine how difficult it was for the two of them. They had always wanted four children. And the joy in my own heart can't compare to the joy they must have felt when we brought Felicia home about seven weeks after she was born. She's now 11, beautiful, talented and healthy.

I don't know how Mom endured through those seven weeks. She's the strongest woman I know. I don't think there's anything in this world that could keep her down. She went months without Dad while he was at sea. She has miscarried eight times. And she almost lost her fourth child.

I can only hope that one day I'll be as strong as she.

LAKE LIVING

LAKE LIVING

LAKE LIVING

LAKE LIVING

LAKE LIVING

Mother: Rose Borslien

By Laurie Edwards, reporter Laker Weekly

When I was 15, I almost lost my mother. Some of the details of that day are foggy; others I recall vividly. It was a day none of us want to remember, but I do remember it as a day my mother showed how strong and resilient she was, traits she exhibits to this day.

It was a Tuesday. I was in driver's education class. The office secretary called the classroom over the loudspeaker and said I needed to report to the principal's office. I couldn't remember doing anything wrong, but all the kids "oohed" as I walked out the door. "Somebody's in trouble!" one of them shouted.

The secretary handed me the phone. It was Mom. She was about six months pregnant and was being admitted to the hospital. "Why?" I asked. Then I wished I hadn't. Mom had preeclampsia, she could barely feel any fetal movement and the baby's heart rate was very low. The doctors needed to take the baby by emergency caesarean section or Mom, the baby or both could die.

Walking back to class was excruciating. When I got home, my sisters -- Christine, 16 and Erika, 1 and I visited Mom at the hospital. She had only seen our newest sister for a moment after the surgery before she was wheeled away to the neonatal ICU.

We weren't allowed to see the baby yet, not until Dad got home. He was in the U.S. Navy, aboard the U.S.S. Saipan. His ship had just pulled into Israel when he got the call. He was flying home as fast as the plane could carry him.

That night, us girls were home alone. The ladies from the church had heard the news and brought over casseroles and pies. I can't remember what kind. I'm not sure I tasted any of it while I was eating. All I know is that our hearts were heavy.

Our mother, who was always a favorite classroom Mom, as she would make cakes for any occasion, was alone in the hospital, her life and our newest sister's life hanging in the balance. She was our Girl Scout troop leader, traipsing with us through the woods and sliding down mud hills. But most of all, she was our mother, who cooked the best casserole I've ever eaten, who took photos everywhere we went so nothing could be forgotten and who loved us unconditionally, no matter how we misbehaved.

Dad arrived home two days later. He and Mom went to see their newest arrival, whom they named Felicia Nissa. She was 1 pound, 13 ounces. The smallest diapers at the hospital were enormous in comparison. Dad could slide his wedding ring all the way up her arm.

They would visit her every day over the next seven weeks. Felicia lost weight, eventually dropping to a single pound. My parents had her baptized in the hospital. Felicia's tiny heart stopped beating and she suffered a stroke. But she came back to us again. It was the hardest time I think Mom, Dad or any of us had gone through. But no matter the pain in our minds and hearts, Mom and Dad were still there for the older girls.

Having no children of my own, I can only imagine how difficult it was for the two of them. They had always wanted four children. And the joy in my own heart can't compare to the joy they must have felt when we brought Felicia home about seven weeks after she was born. She's now 11, beautiful and talented.

I don't know how Mom endured through those seven weeks. She's the strongest woman I know. I don't think there's anything in this world that could keep her down. She went months without Dad while he was at sea. She miscarried eight times. And she almost lost her fourth child.

I can only hope that one day I'll be as strong as she.

Mother: DEBBE CREAMER

By Holly Creamer

Graphic designer

My mom has given me a great appreciation for all things homemade -- from quilts and clothes to cookies and cakes to any sort of decoration you can imagine. When we were little, my sister and I had new homemade dresses to wear to church. There was always a variety of baked goods to munch on. Our rooms were decorated with puffy fabric wall hangings in the shapes of teddy beards and hot air balloons.

Not only did she do it all, she let us help. As soon as my sister, brother and I were coordinated enough to mix flour and sugar in a bowl, we helped in the kitchen; and as soon as we could safely handle scissors and glue, she taught us to make all sorts of crafts.

My mom's craftiness extends to the parties she threw us for our birthdays when we were little. When it came to putting on a kid's party, she thought of everything. She spent an enormous amount of time making decorations and coming up with games and activities for the guests and putting everything together.

One year, I had a "Wizard of Oz' party. There was a giant chalk rainbow on the driveway, and the yellow brick road led up the front steps. She braided my hair in pigtails, gave me ruby red slippers to wear and made a cake decorated with m&m's in the shape of a rainbow.

There was also the mystery party where she made invitations with invisible ink that had to be "baked" in the oven in order for the writing to show up. My sister's backward birthday party is still talked about by her friends as one of the most fun birthday parties they went to as kids . She gave all her guests presents and everyone, including Mom, wore their clothes backward and ate cake with the icing on the bottom and upside-down ice cream cones under the table.

Because of my mom, I have some of the most wonderful childhood memories a girl could ask for. Whenever I have kids I want to do my best to raise them just like she raised us.

Mother: Rose Borslien

By Laurie Edwards, reporter Laker Weekly

When I was 15, I almost lost my mother. Some of the details of that day are foggy; others I recall vividly. It was a day none of us want to remember, but I do remember it as a day my mother showed how strong and resilient she was, traits she exhibits to this day.

It was a Tuesday. I was in driver's education class. The office secretary called the classroom over the loudspeaker and said I needed to report to the principal's office. I couldn't remember doing anything wrong, but all the kids "oohed" as I walked out the door. "Somebody's in trouble!" one of them shouted.

The secretary handed me the phone. It was Mom. She was about six months pregnant and was being admitted to the hospital. "Why?" I asked. Then I wished I hadn't. Mom had preeclampsia, she could barely feel any fetal movement and the baby's heart rate was very low. The doctors needed to take the baby by emergency caesarean section or Mom, the baby or both could die.

Walking back to class was excruciating. When I got home, my sisters -- Christine, 16 and Erika, 1 and I visited Mom at the hospital. She had only seen our newest sister for a moment after the surgery before she was wheeled away to the neonatal ICU.

We weren't allowed to see the baby yet, not until Dad got home. He was in the U.S. Navy, aboard the U.S.S. Saipan. His ship had just pulled into Israel when he got the call. He was flying home as fast as the plane could carry him.

That night, us girls were home alone. The ladies from the church had heard the news and brought over casseroles and pies. I can't remember what kind. I'm not sure I tasted any of it while I was eating. All I know is that our hearts were heavy.

Our mother, who was always a favorite classroom Mom, as she would make cakes for any occasion, was alone in the hospital, her life and our newest sister's life hanging in the balance. She was our Girl Scout troop leader, traipsing with us through the woods and sliding down mud hills. But most of all, she was our mother, who cooked the best casserole I've ever eaten, who took photos everywhere we went so nothing could be forgotten and who loved us unconditionally, no matter how we misbehaved.

Dad arrived home two days later. He and Mom went to see their newest arrival, whom they named Felicia Nissa. She was 1 pound, 13 ounces. The smallest diapers at the hospital were enormous in comparison. Dad could slide his wedding ring all the way up her arm.

They would visit her every day over the next seven weeks. Felicia lost weight, eventually dropping to a single pound. My parents had her baptized in the hospital. Felicia's tiny heart stopped beating and she suffered a stroke. But she came back to us again. It was the hardest time I think Mom, Dad or any of us had gone through. But no matter the pain in our minds and hearts, Mom and Dad were still there for the older girls.

Having no children of my own, I can only imagine how difficult it was for the two of them. They had always wanted four children. And the joy in my own heart can't compare to the joy they must have felt when we brought Felicia home about seven weeks after she was born. She's now 11, beautiful and talented.

I don't know how Mom endured through those seven weeks. She's the strongest woman I know. I don't think there's anything in this world that could keep her down. She went months without Dad while he was at sea. She miscarried eight times. And she almost lost her fourth child.

I can only hope that one day I'll be as strong as she.

Mother: DEBBE CREAMER

By Holly Creamer

Graphic designer

My mom has given me a great appreciation for all things homemade -- from quilts and clothes to cookies and cakes to any sort of decoration you can imagine. When we were little, my sister and I had new homemade dresses to wear to church. There was always a variety of baked goods to munch on. Our rooms were decorated with puffy fabric wall hangings in the shapes of teddy beards and hot air balloons.

Not only did she do it all, she let us help. As soon as my sister, brother and I were coordinated enough to mix flour and sugar in a bowl, we helped in the kitchen; and as soon as we could safely handle scissors and glue, she taught us to make all sorts of crafts.

My mom's craftiness extends to the parties she threw us for our birthdays when we were little. When it came to putting on a kid's party, she thought of everything. She spent an enormous amount of time making decorations and coming up with games and activities for the guests and putting everything together.

One year, I had a "Wizard of Oz' party. There was a giant chalk rainbow on the driveway, and the yellow brick road led up the front steps. She braided my hair in pigtails, gave me ruby red slippers to wear and made a cake decorated with m&m's in the shape of a rainbow.

There was also the mystery party where she made invitations with invisible ink that had to be "baked" in the oven in order for the writing to show up. My sister's backward birthday party is still talked about by her friends as one of the most fun birthday parties they went to as kids . She gave all her guests presents and everyone, including Mom, wore their clothes backward and ate cake with the icing on the bottom and upside-down ice cream cones under the table.

Because of my mom, I have some of the most wonderful childhood memories a girl could ask for. Whenever I have kids I want to do my best to raise them just like she raised us.

MELINDA HARRELL

Mother of Brandt Harrell

Creative director, Laker Media

Melinda Harrell, pictured in 19xx on the day she married John Allen Harrell of Wilson, N.C. Harrell, who in the last years of her life suffered from Alzheimer's disease, died March 18 at age 63.