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My mom was a teacher, is a teacher still, and always will be a teacher.

She wasn't much of a sports fan, but she taught me everything I needed to know about them, why they mattered and why they didn't. I learned the difference between pride and pretense, fear and respect, a rainbow and a brown trout. She pointed out jack-in-the-pulpit and Lenten rose, showed me poison ivy and taught me how to treat it. She made me listen to old church hymns until I learned to love them, made me take piano lessons.

My mom didn't teach me how to play baseball, but she taught me to understand it. She didn't teach me how to fish, but she taught me how to cook it.

She didn't teach me how to mow a lawn, but she taught me how to plant azaleas. She didn't teach me how to climb trees, but she taught me how to dig up a wild dogwood in summer and make it grow in my yard in spring.

My mom didn't teach me how to write, but she taught me how to read. She didn't teach me how to hunt, but she taught me how to tell campfire stories. She didn't buy me my first pocketknife, but she taught me how to keep from cutting a finger off.

She didn't teach me how to drive, but she taught me how to ride a bike. She didn't teach me to pop a wheelie, but she taught me how to clean asphalt out of my skinned knees.

My mom didn't teach me how to read music, but she taught me how to sing. She didn't teach me to like rock 'n' roll, but she taught me to listen to the words. She didn't teach me to grow my hair long as a teenager, but she taught me how to keep it out of my eyes.

She didn't teach me how to catch a snake, but she taught me not to hold it by the tail and try to snap it like a bullwhip. She didn't teach me to bring home stray dogs, but she taught me how to take them back where I found them.

My mom didn't teach me how to shop for new clothes. She taught me how to sew. She didn't teach me how to swim, but she taught me I couldn't fly. She didn't teach me how to run away but to walk toward.

She didn't teach me how to play no-limit Texas hold 'em, but she taught me how to play Rook. She didn't teach me how to play mumblety-peg, but she taught me how to play jacks.

My mom didn't teach me how to make a mint julep, but she taught me how to make ice tea. She didn't teach me to make eggs benedict, but she taught me how to make scratch biscuits.

She didn't teach me how to hit a golf ball, but she drove me back and forth to the golf course. She didn't teach me how to run hurdles, but she bought me my first pair of spikes then suggested I be a distance runner.

My mom didn't teach me to operate a channel changer. She didn't tell me to watch the weather on TV. She taught me to go outside and predict the weather myself. She taught me to watch the birds and listen to the wind.

She didn't teach me to respect my elders. She showed me. She introduced me to every living relative, showed me our family tree sprinkled with Cherokee and unknowns, showed me their graves and told me their stories.

My mom didn't teach me history. She took me to it, made me live it. Our family fought for the Confederacy and the Union, fought for the colonies and the British, sided with the Indians and Andrew Jackson alike. My history's not in a book. It's in the hills around Asheville and the red clay around Randleman. Joan Hardin came from one and ended up at the other, leaving the French Broad for the Deep River and the mountains for the Piedmont.

She didn't teach me about the Piedmont. She taught me about the mountains. She didn't tell me stories about the Deep. She told tales of the French Broad. She let me figure out the Piedmont on my own.

My mom didn't teach me about Carolina or Duke or Wake or State. She taught me about Mars Hill. She didn't teach me about throwing a curveball or shaking tackles or lining up putts or setting ball screens. She taught me about camping. And identifying plants. And learning bird calls. And mending cuts. And cooking over an open flame.

She didn't teach me about making deadlines. She taught me about reading the classics. And appreciating the local writers. And kin. And not putting on airs. And not starting sentences with the word "and."

And I took most of it to heart.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Contact Ed Hardin at 373-7069 or ed.hardin@news-record.com