[Congressional Record Volume 148, Number 59 (Friday, May 10, 2002)]
[Senate]
[Pages S4193-S4195]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                              MOTHER'S DAY

  Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, this coming Sunday is Mother's Day, so 
recognized nationally. Of course, we all know that every day is 
Mother's Day. We should also know that simply having children does not 
make mothers. ``Simply having children does not make mothers.'' That is 
a quotation that I have taken from John A. Shedd, a very apt quotation 
in today's culture.
  Napoleon Bonaparte said, ``The future destiny of the child is always 
the work of the mother.''
  All across the Nation, brunch reservations are being made, cards are 
being mailed, flowers are being ordered, gifts are being bought, and 
phone circuits will overload. It can mean only one thing, as I 
indicated earlier: This coming Sunday is Mother's Day. One day out of 
365. Mother's Day.
  In a great spasm of tender sentiment, Americans will set out to honor 
and celebrate the women most important to them--not Hollywood 
celebrities, not rock music stars--if stars we must call them at all--
not fashion models, not athletes, but those who have devoted such 
energy and creativity to the timeless task of raising children and 
building families. I, too, wish to offer my tributes.
  It is fitting that Mother's Day is celebrated in May, when the Earth 
is vibrant with new life. Mother birds are busy on the nest keeping 
hatchlings warm and their gaping mouths filled. In the tangled 
thickets, wild young are venturing forth from warren and den. The 
little foxes that, in the Bible references ``spoil the vine,'' wrestle, 
and the little rabbits sample the first tiny wild strawberries. 
Butterflies visit the glossy, yellow buttercups and the snowy blossoms 
of the wild blackberries. The world seems as gentle, peaceable, and 
serene as any mother could wish for her children. Of course, we know 
the world is not always quite so benign, but we can still be impressed 
by those mothers who face tragedy with great courage in order to 
protect and shield their children. The mothers who lost husbands on 
September 11 and remained strong and positive examples for their 
children, when bitterness and despair would be so understandable, are 
heroes and heroines each and every day.
  Mothers set indelible examples, the effects of which last for 
generations. My own mother, whose early death during the great flu 
pandemic in 1918 meant that I would be raised by relatives, should have 
left no trace upon my character. After all, I was only about a year old 
when she went to Heaven. Yet her selflessness in thinking of me on her 
deathbed, and expressing the wish that I would be cared for by one of 
my father's sisters, left me with the deep and abiding assurance of her 
love for me.
  I had three older brothers and a sister, and it was in that great 
influenza epidemic that she was taken away, as millions of other 
mothers were taken away--perhaps 20 million people around the world 
lost their lives during that great influenza epidemic of 1917-1918. It 
is said that 12 million people in India died from the influenza, the 
swine flu. Perhaps 750,000 people in America died.

  As I say, it was her wish, my mother's wish, that I be taken by one 
of my father's sisters whose name was Vlurma. I believe my father had 
nine sisters and perhaps two or three brothers, but it was one of his 
sisters, a sister who had married Titus Dalton Byrd, who took me in 
response to my dying mother's wish.
  But for her wish, Mr. President, I would not be here today. I would 
never have gone to West Virginia to be reared in the coal mining 
communities in the southern part of the State had it not been for that 
mother's wish. I probably would have never sworn the oath in entering 
upon the office of U.S. Senator had it not been for that wish, my 
mother's wish, that I, the baby, should be brought up in the home of 
Titus Dalton Byrd and Vlurma Byrd, the only child in that home.
  The Byrds had one child before I was born. That child was named 
Robert Madison Byrd. That child died of scarlet fever. The Byrds moved 
away from North Carolina and to West Virginia and moved me with them.
  At first I had been named Cornelius Calvin Sale, Jr., by my father 
and my mother. My mother's name was Ada--Ada Mae. The two wonderful 
people who raised me changed my name to Robert Carlyle Byrd.
  So my mother's wish is a priceless gift even now, all of these years 
later. And the woman who raised me, my aunt, imbued me with her quiet 
faith and reverence for the Creator and impressed upon me her work 
ethic. I always call her ``mom.'' She was the only mother I really ever 
knew. There are millions of other men and women around the world who 
can speak of their mothers as I have spoken of mine. They may have lost 
their mothers early or at some point along life's way. Many of them 
have sweet memories of those mothers. I do not have any memory of my 
mother, but somehow I know that her prayers have always followed me. I 
believe that. And I believe that she is in Heaven today.
  The woman who reared me, my biological father's sister, was one of 
the few really, really great people I have known in my life. I had the 
good fortune to meet with many world leaders during my years in the 
Senate and especially during my years as majority leader in the Senate. 
I met with the Shah of Iran just a few weeks before he left Iran, never 
to return. I met with the current King of Jordan's father. I first met 
him 47 years ago. I met, as I mentioned earlier, the Shah of Iran. I 
first met him 47 years ago--in 1955.
  I met with the President of Syria. I shook hands with Nassar of 
Egypt. I visited with and talked with German Chancellor Schmidt and 
German Chancellor Kohl. I met with Margaret Thatcher in her offices in 
London. I met with the Saudi family. I met with Prime Minister Begin of 
Israel. I met with Vice President Deng of China. I met with Mr. 
Khrushchev in the Crimea in his summer home.
  I met with many other world leaders--Kings and Shahs and Princes and 
Presidents and Senators and Governors. These were outstanding 
personages, the leaders of the world. I had one-on-one meetings with 
these people. I met with President Sadat of Egypt. But the truly great 
people in my life and according to my standards were not national 
leaders or politicians, they were just common people. One of them was 
the man who raised me, Titus Dalton Byrd, a coal miner. I never heard 
him use God's name in vain in all of his life. He was a humble man. He 
paid his debts. He never spoke ill of a neighbor. He was a good man, as 
good as men can be. The Bible says no man is good, but he was as good 
as men become. He was a great man, in my sight.
  The woman who raised me was a great woman. Neither of them had any 
education to amount to anything. I doubt that either of them had ever 
gone to the third grade in school. I was the first person in all of my 
family line who ever graduated from elementary school or from high 
school or from college.
  They never made it to the third or fourth grade in school, but they 
were great souls, they had great hearts, they had honest minds, and 
they imbued me with a respect for the Bible and a respect for religion.
  I can listen to any man's religion. It can be a man of Islam. It can 
be a Hindu. It can be a Protestant. It can be a Jew. I can listen to 
any of them. I can pray with any of them. That is the way I was taught.
  These two people who raised me were great people. That aunt, as I 
say, I never knew any name for her but

[[Page S4194]]

``Mom.'' I did not know that she was not my mother until I was in my 
year of graduation from high school. I can close my eyes and see her, 
after a long day, working to make ends meet in a hardscrabble West 
Virginia mining community, sitting at a scrubbed kitchen table, and 
discussing the Bible.
  Those were some hard times in those days. When my wife and I married 
almost 65 years ago--in less than 3 weeks, if the Lord lets us live to 
see the day--our first refrigerator was half of an orange crate, or a 
grapefruit crate. I was a produce boy in a coal company store, so I 
sold grapefruits, oranges, other citrus fruits, other fruits, and 
vegetables. So I brought an empty orange crate home and nailed it up 
outside the kitchen window. That was during the Great Depression. 
During the late 1920s I lived as a boy on Wolf Creek in Mercer County, 
no electricity in the home, no running water in the house. Those were 
the days of the 2-cent stamp and the penny postcard.
  I know what the word ``mother'' means, and I know what the word 
``father'' means, even though my father and my angel mother did not 
rear me. But this old aunt and uncle who knew little about their ABCs 
but who knew much about life and about the things that count mostly in 
life, they reared me; they loved me. I heard ``mom'' pray many times in 
the stillness of the night. When the kerosene lamp was out, I would 
hear her voice coming from another room. I knew she was on her knees.
  After I was elected to Congress, there were occasions when I would 
drive to West Virginia and go to her house. I would get there perhaps 
at 12, 1, or 2 in the morning. I would knock on the door, and she would 
answer the door. She would always ask me if I wanted her to fix me 
something to eat at that hour. Then after I spent most of the weekend 
in West Virginia and was about to return to Washington, she would fix a 
good noonday meal, and then say to me: ``Robert, you be a good boy; I 
always pray for you.''
  It used to be when I was a little boy living on Wolf Creek Hollow, I 
would take bags of corn up to the mill on the top of the mountain. We 
had one horse named George. I had a pony. I would put a bag of corn 
across that pony's back, take it up to the mill, and the miller would 
grind the corn into meal, and that evening ``mom'' would make a cake of 
cornbread.
  We had one cow, and sometimes ``mom'' would take me out with her to 
milk the cow. I would sit there and have a cup, and she would squeeze 
that milk down in the cup. I would drink that cup of milk with the foam 
freshly wrought from the bag of the cow.
  I still see my aunt, who was--the only mother I ever really knew. She 
never kissed me in her life. I never received a mother's kiss, unlike 
Benjamin West, that great American painter who was living at the time 
the Constitution of the United States was written in Philadelphia. He 
would take to his mother, so the story goes, little drawings of birds 
and flowers, and she took him upon her knee. It is said that she kissed 
little Benjamin West's cheek as he sat on her knee and she told him he 
would grow up to be a great painter. So he grew up to be a painter of 
early American scenes. ``The Death of General Wolfe'' was by Benjamin 
West. The story is told that Benjamin West said a mother's kiss made 
him a great painter.
  I do not remember ever receiving a mother's kiss, but I received 
``mom's'' love. I still see her in my mind's eye when my wife Erma and 
I sit together on Sundays and read the Bible. My aunt taught me a great 
deal about the quiet dignity with which she lived her life. Mothers 
teach when they insist that their children brush their teeth and eat 
their vegetables. Mothers teach by saying bedtime prayers, by reading 
bedtime stories, and by singing lullabies. As I say, simply having 
children does not make mothers, but mothers do sing lullabies at the 
bedsides of their children.
  They demonstrate their love not only through hugs and praise, but in 
each meal they make, each load of laundry they fold, each toy they put 
away. Children absorb lessons from the people around them, and 
especially from the parents they look up to. So, mothers teach by 
example when they read themselves instead of watching television, the 
vast wasteland that numbs peoples' minds or by being careful with their 
speech and with the way they live their lives. Each small lesson helps 
to weave the cloth of their children's lives. It is for these daily 
lessons, the laughter shared and tears dried, that we put so much 
effort into making Mother's Day special. And we ought to make it 
special. We ought to see Mother on this Mother's Day and every other 
day of the year that it is possible.
  A poem by an anonymous poet captures the inspiration that mothers 
provide:

                        When Mother Reads Aloud

     When Mother reads aloud, the past
     Seems real as every day;
     I hear the tramp of armies vast,
     I see the spears and lances cast,
     I join the trilling fray;
     Brave knights and ladies fair and proud
     I meet when Mother reads aloud.
     When Mother reads aloud, far lands
     Seem very near and true;
     I cross the desert's gleaming sands,
     Or hunt the jungle's prowling bands,
     Or sail the ocean blue.
     Far heights, whose peaks the cold mists shroud,
     I scale, when Mother reads aloud.
     When Mother reads aloud, I long
     For noble deeds to do
     To help the right, redress the wrong;
     It seems so easy to be strong,
     So simple to be true.
     Oh, thick and fast the visions crowd
     My eyes, when Mother reads aloud.

  Manufacturers of greeting cards, florists, jewelers, clothing stores, 
even the phone company suggest that their products are treasured by 
mothers, and I am sure that they are. But mothers also treasure the 
lumpy clay vases made by young potters and filled with wild flowers 
torn from the yard. Mothers love the care and love that their loved 
ones put into this celebration. Flowers or no flowers, homemade cards 
or store-bought, mothers love being surrounded by their families most 
of all. Each child is some mother's treasure, her precious angel, even 
when that child is grown and gone to far away places. A mother's 
children are her greatest works, her magnum opus, her masterpiece. A 
phone call or a meal shared together provides an opportunity to relive 
the memories that make each family special. Erma and I can look around 
the table as we think of her mother, Erma's mother, a fine Christian 
woman who lived a good life. A wonderful mother-in-law. We think of her 
as we sit around the table with our two lovely daughters and their 
families knowing that our two newest members, our little great 
granddaughters,--let me repeat that, our little great-granddaughter, 
are fortunate to share in our close-knit family.
  As in all families, my mother, my aunt who raised me, my wife, my 
daughters, my granddaughters and my great-granddaughters our grandsons, 
our daughters-in-law, our sons-in-law, all share many titles. They are 
proud citizens of this fair land. They are strong, talented, 
independent women. They may hold many business titles. They are 
sisters, cousins, and aunts. They are, or may be, wives. But the title, 
the job, that will give them the greatest pleasure in their lives, will 
be to be called ``Mother.'' Remember that simply having children does 
not make mothers. The title comes with much labor, much patience some 
tedium, hopefully not too many tears, and love beyond measure. The job 
will call upon their every reserve of strength and every ounce of 
creativity, but it will never tax their ability to love and to cherish.
  This Sunday, scrubbed and shining, let us present the mothers in our 
lives with fitting tribute. Give them flowers, cards, good food, and 
presents, but most of all, let us give them our gratitude and repay, in 
small measure, the love and devotion that they have showered upon us.
  I close with a few stanzas from a poem by Elizabeth Akers Allen. It 
is called ``Rock Me to Sleep.''
  I offer it to my own sweet angel mother, who hears me now, who is 
listening today with millions of other mothers like her who have gone 
on to that land where the flowers never wither and the rainbow never 
fades.

     Backward, turn backward, O time, in your flight,
     Make me a child again just for to-night!
     Mother, come back from the echoless shore,
     Take me again to your heart as of yore;
     Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
     Smooth the few silver threads from my hair;
     Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;--

[[Page S4195]]

     Rock me to sleep, Mother--rock me to sleep!
     Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
     No love like mother-love ever has shone;
     No other worship abides and endures--
     Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours:
     None like a mother can charm away pain
     From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
     Slumber's soft calms o'er my heavy lids creep;--
     Rock me to sleep, Mother--rock me to sleep!
     Mother, dear Mother, the years have been long
     Since I last listened your lullaby song:
     Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
     Womanhood's years have been only a dream.
     Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
     With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
     Never hereafter to wake or to weep;--
     Rock me to sleep, Mother--rock me to sleep!

  I will yield the floor and I suggest the absence of a quorum.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. The clerk will call the roll.
  The legislative clerk proceeded to call the roll.
  Mr. REID. Mr. President, I ask unanimous consent the order for the 
quorum call be rescinded.
  The PRESIDING OFFICER. Without objection, it is so ordered.

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