Mom

While there are those who claim they are “self-made,” I contend that no one is successful in life (however “success” is measured), without some significant mentors along the way. I have been blessed with many. And while it will be my pleasure and privilege to talk about some of them over the course of the next weeks and months, today is my mother’s day.

Margaret Noble Appenzeller Huyler was born April 23, 1919 in Korea. She died on September 11, 2005 on our ranch in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. As my beloved mother, she was my first and foremost mentor, the one who, along with Dad, taught me the most basic and long-lasting lessons about right and wrong, treating people with respect and integrity, the value of hard work, honesty, family (heritage and present). A woman of unfailing grace and beauty, she was a quiet but recognized and respected force.

Mom had a wicked sense of humor. Dad could never understand how she and I would get uncontrollable giggles in church or other venues where we were supposed to be serious. The kind of giggles that, perhaps, one shares at that depth only with family. We would laugh so hard the pew would shake. When one of was managing to control herself, the other would set off, silently shaking and initiating another paroxysm of mirth, while Dad looked on disapprovingly.

Mom was a remarkable athlete. Had she been of another era, she likely would have won a full track scholarship to UC Berkeley, where she graduated in 1940, a year ahead of herself. Given that she grew up as the daughter and granddaughter of Methodist missionaries in Korea and graduated in a senior class of five, she had to have been a pretty smart cookie.

Two favorite memories underscore her athleticism and perseverance. When I was about five, we were at the Teton County Fair and Rodeo, where Dad was the announcer. Mom, my brothers, and I were seated in the stands when he announced a 100-yard dash for women and egged Mom to participate. (She was reluctant only because she would have to run in her socks and had a hole in one.) So Mom pulled off her boots and lined up along with fifteen or twenty other competitors, two of whom were Olympic skiers and probably ten years younger than she. Despite the fact that one of the linesman tried to trip her, she won the race – much to the indignation of one of the skiers.

The second, on-going claim to fame was that Mom and Dad were undefeated in the horseback version of the traditional sack race at The Thacher School. The event consisted of partners on separate horses racing 100 yards, piling off their steeds, each inserting one leg in a gunny sack, and running back to the starting line, leading their horses. Mom and Dad worked in perfect synchrony and were beautiful to behold, outstripping all challengers (mostly fit high school boys).

Perhaps these recollections serve as odd examples of what I learned from my mother, but they are significant, and they are what are on my mind on this 13th anniversary of her death. Mom never said no to a challenge. She held her own in any situation with exceptional grace and character. While her life was traditional in many ways, she was also a constant reminder of what women could do – and were not “allowed” to do.  I imagine that all of us make choices and do things in ways that consciously reflect our parents and other loved ones. The Big Things are important: the ways we choose to live and treat people. The Little Things are the ones that inspire memories and are good for the soul. For me – for Mom – they include picking a wildflower and putting it in my hat when I am riding or hiking, setting a nice table, sharing kitchen space, laughing with my daughters, holding my granddaughter, creating a great salad, giggling uncontrollably when I should be straight-faced.

Mom was diagnosed with Parkinson’s seven years before she died. Her last couple of years were a particular challenge for someone who had been so physically capable. At one point not too long before she died, she needed help buttoning her cuffs. She remarked, as I did so, “Oh, Rufis, you make it look so easy.” She never complained, and that single comment struck me deeply in terms of how she dealt with her losses internally.

Here’s to you, Mom. May you be laughing, running, riding with flowers in your hat. Thank you for being my north star.