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Mom, today is your 70th Mother's Day!

You first became a mother in November of 1936, during the Great Depression, when every penny counted and you wondered how in the world you and Pop could make the mortgage payment - $47.50 was a huge amount of money in those days.

Pop went away to serve in World War II and left you to raise two kids, using ration books for meat and gas while you wondered if he would come home safely.

When Pop came home, you had a third child and thought that all was well with your family. But one day your oldest son, your second child, was riding his bike down the road. A drunk driver killed him and changed your world forever.

You found your faith from that sorrow. I was born two years later, and my younger sister three years after that.

Through it all, you loved us, played with us, worried about us, scolded us, and supported us. Who else would have let me run away and join the circus, worrying all the while? Only you, Mom.

You cared for Pop for four long years as he died by inches, always thinking of ways to make him laugh, trying to help him feel better, never giving up until you had to.

Now, at almost 96, you're frail and tiny and stooped, but you still laugh at a good joke and make chocolate angel pie and worry about your checkbook and skunk all the other ladies at bridge.

You're amazing, I love you, and I'm proud to be your daughter.