This weekend is an important date for my family; it’s my mother’s birthday.

Shirley Whiteman will be celebrating the 61st anniversary of her 29th birthday — she’s turning 90.

I bring this up for a lot of reasons. First, of course, is to wish her a happy birthday, but also to share some of the wisdom she imparted throughout my childhood that has enabled me to be where I am today.

Growing up poor, wearing secondhand clothes, my siblings and I were the brunt of a lot of teasing in school. I remember talking to my mother about it one day before school. I was in 5th grade, and a 6th grade girl was particularly cruel to me.

My mother told me, “She puts on her pants one leg at a time, same as you. No one is better than you, unless you let them be.” She explained that bullies are often insecure, or unhappy with something in their own lives.

I thought about that a lot. I wasn’t going to let her be better than me. I was going to keep on doing my best, and say a little prayer that the bully had some happiness come into her own life along the way.

I had always done well in school. I loved to read, and knew the basics before I started kindergarten. I remember asking my mom once why school was so important, and why she insisted all of her children graduate — and it was touch-and-go for some of my older brothers, believe me.

“An education is important. No one can ever take that away from you,” my mother told me. Life has roadblocks and tough times, and there will be failures along the way. As long as you have an education, you have what you need to dust yourself off and keep going, she explained.

I’ve certainly encountered roadblocks in my life, and hit patches that I didn’t think I would make it through.

When I was pregnant with my now-adult daughter, I was having a difficult time, and was on bed rest. My mother would come over to visit with me. We’d sit on my front porch, and she’d teach me the basics of sewing. We made bibs and blankets, listened to music and sat in the sun.

Now, 23 years later, I’m using those sewing basics to make masks to keep my family safe during a pandemic.

When my daughter was born with a serious heart defect, I didn’t know how to move forward. “One day at a time,” my mother said. “Everyone is going to have advice for you. Accept it graciously. Then throw it out and listen to the doctor, that’s what you pay him for.”

When my daughter had problems in school, I’d ask my mother for advice.

“Make sure they understand her health conditions. Make sure they have a way to reach you. But don’t be one of those parents who everybody dreads to see coming,” she said.

OK, so I failed at that one. But I did try.

When I started working as a journalist, I admit that I had an inferiority complex. What business did I have — Marcie Whiteman, one of those 15 kids of Don and Shirley’s — talking to legislators, heads of industry, politicians?

My mother didn’t grace that one with a response. I got a look — complete with a raised eyebrow. I got the message.

At one point in my career, a particularly grouchy local fellow was yelling at me for some perceived wrong when he called me a “mouthy woman,” and added that my mother was probably the same. I think he was surprised when I started to laugh. I said, “If I give you my mother’s phone number, would you please call and say that to her?” He declined. Oh how I would have loved hearing that conversation. In my life, I’ve seen my mother bring grown men to tears with the “mom voice” and a sharp lecture. She had 10 sons and five daughters. She’s tough.

This year, with COVID-19, I haven’t spent as much time with my mother as I’d like. But I think about her often. And I hope she knows what a huge part she plays in the lives of her family, even if we aren’t that great at telling her.

When my daughter was a toddler, she loved a Disney television show called Bear in the Big Blue House. There was a little blue mouse on the show named Tutter, who had a close relationship with his Grandma Flutter. Tutter was working on a card for his grandma, and sang a song about what to say, and how to make sure she knew how much he loved her, and appreciated all she did for him.

I will never forget what he settled on: “Dear Grandma Flutter, Love Tutter.” And then he sang, “I guess that says it all.”

(Marcie Schellhammer is the Era’s assistant managing editor. She can be reached at marcie@bradfordera.com)