Six Sonoma County women on their inspiring mother figures

Mothers come in many guises. There are birth mothers and there are the women who raised us. And then there are the surrogates, who stepped in to provide the extra nurturing some of us needed.

Maybe you lost your mom or your mother was too young or too busy to give you the attention you craved. Some birth mothers struggle with their own burdens, like addiction or mental illness. But a family friend, a grandma, a beloved auntie, a teacher or coach was there to deliver the snuggles and hugs, the life lessons and the joy that helped you thrive to adulthood. We asked readers to share their tributes to these second mothers whose unconditional love is felt to this day.

Grandmother Lupe

Laura Gonzales, a middle school teacher in Santa Rosa, told us how her grandmother was the steady, loving presence she needed as a girl.

I was raised in San Francisco by a single mother. After she and my father broke up when I was toddler, I went to live with my grandparents for awhile in Santa Rosa. Eventually I went back full time with my mom but still spent a lot of time with my grandparents until I entered school. I can remember my grandmother taking me with her to her job at the Santa Rosa Hotel next to Rosenberg’s (now Barnes and Noble). She had to be there early to start working in the kitchen, and I'd climb up on the counter and onto a shelf where I'd go back to sleep for awhile. My grandparents later rented the small restaurant on South A. It was called Grandma's and Grandpa's Cafe. Once I wandered off and was found in a kindergarten classroom at Luther Burbank Elementary.

As I got older, my grandmother would have me spend the summers with her and my grandfather in Santa Rosa. Being with her was the best thing. I always knew that my grandmother loved me unconditionally, whereas the relationship between my mother and I wasn't as smooth.

I loved sitting with my grandmother at the kitchen table and listening to the stories of her life. She’d tell me about growing up in El Paso and leaving there because it seemed like a dead end. She came to San Francisco in 1937 all by herself, a very brave thing for a young Mexican woman to do at that time. She was only 24 and didn’t know anyone here. She even walked across the bridge on Pedestrian Day. (The Golden Gate Bridge was opened for the first time to pedestrians on May 27, 1937, to celebrate the bridge’s completion.) That sense of adventure and independence is something I got from her.

Hearing all the old family stories was fascinating and eventually made me very interested in genealogy. Unfortunately, most of my discoveries were long after my grandmother died in 2003 at the age of 90. Now I occasionally teach beginning Mexican genealogy at Santa Rosa Junior College.

My mother was young when she had me, and her life was difficult for the first years. My grandmother was a stabilizing presence. She definitely influenced me. I never doubted my grandmother loved me. There was a tension sometimes with my mother. She didn’t show love the way I needed it shown. My grandmother was better at that.

To see Gonzales’ blog page about her grandmother and a video she made for Ancestry.com, go to bit.ly/2SwAZ4v.

— Laura Gonzales

Caregiver Hattie

Yvonne Alexander, a retired college instructor in Santa Rosa, wrote about the woman who stepped in when she couldn’t rely on her mother.

My fondness for books began in a shotgun flat in San Francisco’s Fillmore District a few years after World War II ended. Our parents divorced when I was 2, my brother 4. There was no father in our lives, few social services and our mother, an Oklahoma farm girl plagued by mental illness and alcoholism, struggled to hold her life together.

My brother Eddie and I lived with Hattie Austin and her daughter Joy, who was about 10 years old. Joy and I spent hours in the long hallway of that home, our bellies flattened on the cool linoleum floor, chins cupped in hands, while I pestered Joy to read to me — please, just one more story.

I remember Hattie as a large woman, her ample arms embracing me in long hugs that assured me of her deep love. Ed remembers going to church with Hattie, where there was plenty of shouting and jumping as he recalled recently in a long-distance phone conversation. I was glad to join in singing “Jesus Loves Me.” I didn’t know who that Jesus person was, but I would take all the love I could get.

Years later when I started first grade, I opened the Dick and Jane book and began to read. “Look, Jane. Look, look, look. See Spot. Run, Spot, run.” I thought that’s how reading worked — you opened the book and you read the story. Didn’t everyone do that? It wasn’t until my own son was in kindergarten and began reading to me that I realized I had learned to read because of Joy’s patience 70 years ago in that shotgun flat in the Fillmore District of San Francisco.

Social Services learned about our beloved Hattie. It was 1952. Hattie was Black. Ed and I are white. So Hattie’s “sweet, precious Eddie and Yvonne” were torn from her and placed in a shelter, and then foster homes, where we were, you know, another horror story about abused kids.

A few years later our mother dashed off to Mexico to marry an American soldier who was not yet divorced.

Our new soldier stepdad was sent to Alaska. Mom was going to drive Ed and me to Seattle to board a plane for Anchorage to join her new husband. Before leaving San Francisco, our mother drove us to Hattie’s home on Fillmore Street to say goodbye. Mom and Ed were in the front seat of our 1952 Dodge; I was in the back.

Hattie’s words have stayed with me all these years. In her deep Mississippi drawl, Hattie said to my mother, “Now Inez, don’t you worry about a thing, honey, because Jesus is in the back seat of that car.” I jumped up, not knowing if Jesus was on my right or left. I wanted to allow enough room for the long drive to Seattle.

— Yvonne Alexander

Renee

Lauren Thompson, who works in human services for Sonoma County, was raised by her dad with her brothers. A classmate’s mom filled in the gaps in motherly guidance.

I met Renee Milligan when I was 15 and in my sophomore year at Santa Rosa High School. I was part of the peer counseling program, and the director had asked Renee to speak with us. I knew who she was, though we had never met. Her daughter Marissa was a classmate of mine who tragically died by suicide the year prior, an event that shook the entire school.

Renee had begun to do outreach at the local high schools to share Marissa’s story, and she started with Santa Rosa High. Her hope was to raise awareness of mental health and encourage students to seek help if they were struggling. Though it was difficult for her to talk about the loss of her daughter, her goal was to make each person she came into contact with feel heard. Her immense compassion for others radiated even through her grief, and she quickly became a mother figure to so many teens, myself included.

I began to babysit for Renee’s 3-year-old daughter Olivia, and they quickly became family. Renee learned that my father was raising me and my brothers on his own, and though I had everything I needed, she still somehow found ways to fill in the cracks. She did the things that the guys in my life didn’t understand, like taking me for my first mani/pedi and helping me shop for clothes. I talked to her about boys, and she was there for me when I first had my heart broken. When I got my learner’s permit she bravely allowed me to practice driving in her car, and when it was time she took me to get my driver’s license. She would occasionally drop off a pot roast or homemade soup and warm loaves of sourdough bread, in what seemed to be in recognition of my father’s amazing job of raising three children on his own. She did all of this while taking care of her own family and so many others.

Renee has been in my life now for 20 years, and during that time she has seen me through so many significant moments. She celebrated my graduation from college and the start of my career and held my hand while I grieved the loss of my brother and then my mom.

I am forever thankful to Renee for more things than I can count, but in the end it can all be summed up with this: She found time to be a mother figure to a girl who needed one, and for that I will always be grateful.

— Lauren Thompson

Church lady Mrs. Charlene

A pastor’s wife gave Sheila Morrissey, a retired public health nurse who lives in Santa Rosa, a place to be accepted.

My mother was a very savvy woman. She was able to raise three daughters by sewing clothes, babysitting and other odd jobs, without much formal education behind her. I loved her a lot but have given myself permission to let her off the hook with regard to her teaching me about giving hugs, kisses and words of sweetness during my lifetime. Her theme always was “Get an education; it will last your lifetime.”

But there were other women in my life, especially during my younger years, who taught me important things (which didn’t occur to me at the time) that have stayed with me this day. I am now in my 70s, but some of these women left large impacts.

One woman in particular stands out. She was my pastor's wife, Mrs. Charlene (sometimes even Sister Charlene). When my mom had to work on Sundays, which was frequently since she was a sought-after babysitter, I was able to make it to church. I was pretty much on my own by age 12, as both of my older sisters had married and moved out of town.

Mrs. Charlene would ask me if I would sit by her during church and then would let me rest my head on her shoulder while I listened to the wonderful music when she sang along with the congregation. It was beautiful. Then she would ask if I wanted to come back to her home by the San Diego bay to have lunch and maybe play board games or go for a Sunday walk. Her house was so warm and inviting. She allowed stacks of books and magazines to pile up — unheard of in my home — and she let me make my own sandwiches and put as much peanut butter and jelly on them as I could. Then she would play the piano while I ate my huge sandwich with a glass of cold milk.

Lessons of love, acceptance, kindness and generosity were being given. Another memory of that time was when church members would drop by for shots. In those days, vitamin B-12 was a sought-after path to more energy or perhaps as an antibiotic. All were OK’d by a doctor she worked for. It was marvelous watching her draw up the meds, so careful, all while asking questions about how folks were feeling, if they were getting enough food. She was a proud Licensed Vocational Nurse. She had trained in her home state of North Carolina and she loved helping people. And if their replies were of concern, she would somehow make a plan to get them help. These are memories that still make me smile.

I am so grateful for so many women who helped me be who I am today, but Mrs. Charlene was huge.

— Sheila Morrissey

Grandmother Aurora

Yolanda Vera Martinez of Santa Rosa filled the role of daughter for a woman who longed for one.

My paternal grandmother was my second mom, not because I needed a mom, but because she needed a daughter.

Grandma Aurora had five sons, and her last child was a girl, but she died at birth. I was the first grandchild, and a girl, born to her second son, Beto and his wife Trini.

I was very lucky to have been wanted and loved. Grandma took advantage of every opportunity to hold me in her arms, and her life became, literally, song and dance. From what I heard, grandpa Placido would tell her to leave me alone, but she sang and danced with me all the time.

Grandpa became ill, and except for the youngest son, the others and my mom went to Mexico City to find work to pay for the medical expenses. Still, grandpa died.

As a widow, grandma had to be in charge of the general store that had been their means of support. I stayed there to keep her company. Cecilio, the youngest son, was the shepherd and water boy after school, so he was gone all day.

The store, one of two in Chicavasco, Hidalgo, Mexico, was well assorted with items of basic needs for the townspeople. Grandma became so busy that in my loneliness, I would cross the street to where my parents’ home was, and I entertained myself looking at old pictures and other treasures.

When I was old enough to help in the store, grandma would tell me stories about her pupils; she had been a teacher before getting married. “It’s a wonderful feeling to realize that because of my efforts, many youngsters learned to read and write,” she would say.

Grandma Aurora’s enthusiasm for teaching stayed embedded in my mind, and when I came to California, I said to myself, “I shall learn English well enough to teach it.” And I did.

I retired from Santa Rosa High School as a successful teacher of English and Spanish, thanks to my second mom.

— Yolanda Vera Martinez

Manny

A grandmother with humor and spark was a lifelong influence for Kimbra St. Martin of Windsor.

My childhood was spent growing up on an Arabian Horse ranch owned and operated by my grandmother, Edna Draper. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was a nationally recognized pioneer in the Arabian Horse business. To me she was simply Manny.

My dad, mom and three younger brothers and I lived in a two-bedroom, one-bath farmhouse, which meant the four of us children slept in one bedroom with a bunk and a crib. Not a whole lot of room or one-on-one time.

When I got old enough (about age 3) to go for sleepovers at Manny’s house, I was tickled to death. Manny made the best custard and chocolate pudding I’d ever eaten. In the afternoon I’d help her get eggs from the chicken house, we’d fill the water troughs and check on the horses before we went indoors. Evenings after dinner she would read to me or we would listen to my uncles Duke and Ted tell of their adventures of the day while I sat in her lap in her favorite easy chair. I felt so loved and special nestled with her.

With three boys and me, my mom didn’t have the time or energy for one-on-one time. In fact, I was only 4 years and 9 months old when my youngest brother was born. Can you imagine four kids all under the age of five? Bedtime at Manny’s was spent in the bedroom that had once belonged to Edna Lee, her daughter and my mother. She would tuck me in and we would say a simple prayer. Leaving the room she’d always say “Sweet dreams” as she turned off the light.

Later, when I was a teen, she taught me to drive. I actually started driving when I was 5 or 6 and she’d have me steer the old Ford pickup while she threw hay off the bed of the truck for the mares in the pasture. So I learned early how to drive in a straight line.

My teens and 20s passed with school and then jobs. I’d travel from the Bay Area to Santa Rosa as often as I could to go to the ranch. I learned to screen potential horse owners from the “lookie-loos” when someone would knock on her door to look at her horses. I helped her halter-break foals and give them their vaccines. We worked well together.

In my mid 30s, I moved to Santa Rosa from Marin with my two children who were toddlers at the time. When we would visit Manny at her ranch in Windsor, they loved to play in the hay barn and find kittens and their mamas hiding in the hay. When the weather was warm, they would run through the irrigation sprinklers for hours at a time having a blast. When they asked if they could spend the night at Manny’s, I was thrilled. Her great-grandkids loved her. And they really liked her chocolate Ensure for breakfast!

The years passed and the daily phone calls were a treat. We’d end our calls with me saying “I love you” and she’d reply “I love you more.” One very hot day I stopped at the ranch to check in on her. By then she was in her mid 80s. She was sitting in her favorite chair and had a wet rag around her neck to keep cool, but with one look I knew things weren’t good. Her face was red and hot to the touch. She was dazed and could barely move. I knew she was in the early stages of heatstroke. I grabbed her overnight bag and helped her to my car. I told her she was moving in with me.

From that point on, I was the one that took care of her. Doctor’s appointments, dental visits, the pharmacy, whatever was needed. And of course, trips to the ranch. She knew the horses were being well taken care of by her trusted ranch hand Pedro.

Late in her 89th year, her doctor suggested hospice. Some of the most wonderful caring folks would visit her and they loved her humor and spirit. Once, my kids convinced her to put on a pair of Groucho Marx glasses with a fake nose and mustache and a black Stetson bowler hat. A small black flashlight with red paper on the end of it became her fake cigar. When the hospice worker walked into her room, she greeted him in Groucho style with, “So, how’s it going?” After everyone finished laughing, he told us that was the first time one of his dying patients had made him laugh.

On a Sunday late in September, I sat at her bedside very gently holding her hand. She had stopped eating or drinking several days before and was semi-comatose, so I didn’t expect her to speak. I quietly said to her “I love you so much,” and she replied “I love you more.”

— Kimbra St. Martin

You can reach Staff Writer Meg McConahey at 707-521-5204 or meg.mcconahey@pressdemocrat.com. OnTwitter @megmcconahey.