As I write this, it is my mother's birthday. When it appears in print, her birthday will have passed. She will have made the transition from 85 to 86.

When she was born, Utah had been a state less than 10 years. The automobile was a rarity. Airplanes were pie in the sky, so to speak.Most women didn't anticipate anything more in life than kitchen and kids.

As a journalist, I have the advantage over many of you. I have a forum in which to publicly say "Happy Birthday" to my mom and to tell all of you that my mom is a woman of whom President Bush would be proud.

Mom became a lifelong learner before the phrase was coined. She probably isn't aware even now that she is part of a national movement to make America a nation of learners. She may be aware that Bush signed up for a computer class to put some practice into his preach, because she seems to know a lot about what goes on in the country.

She never went to college, but she developed a quality that was equivalent or better. She learned to love reading. She had a knack for writing, too, that turned her into a journalist by default.

She helped support six of us by working for a small-town newspaper, even though she'd likely never heard of the five W's (who, what, where, when, why), an inverted pyramid or the multiple ways to write a lead.

Her natural love for words took care of the technical part, and her honesty precluded libel.

The PTA would be proud of Mom, too. She read to her children. She STILL reads to her children. And her children, getting older and grayer themselves, listen every chance they get.

Hanker for a pleasant few hours? Travel with us some day and listen to her read the old poetry classics - or recite them from memory.

How long has it been since you spent a pleasant afternoon romping through the adventures of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table? Happened to me on our last run to California - right up to "Il Mort de Arthur."

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How about an interlude in a child's dream world that may never return - "Out to Old Aunt Mary's" or an exhausting dash on a cobbled road with "The Highwayman" rushing to save Bess, Bess the landlord's daughter, tying a dark red love knot into her long black hair? How about contemplating the pleasant sound the rain makes for one who's six feet under ground? If that's too depressing, you can rollick along in the parson's One Hoss Shay, which totally collapsed all in one day.

My mom, that wonderful white-haired lady that many know and admire, killed Dicky Bird. After reading the Dicky Bird stories to us for umpty-nine nights in a row, she surreptitiously wrote a new chapter in which the little fellow got sick and died. Palmed it off on us slick as a whistle. And for the short time we mourned his passing, she got a reprieve from Dicky Bird.

The books Mom has read, laid end to end, would be a highway to more knowledge and adventure than many rich people ever know, with all their ability to travel and buy. The poetry she has written, the poetry she has recited, the poetry she inspires, are a legacy of infinite value.

Happy birthday, Mom. Read on.

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