My parents both owned snowmobiles which they rode regularly during the cold Minnesota winters. My father owned the fastest one in the neighborhood (1972 640 TNT Ski-Doo), and my mother owned a much smaller version (Elan Ski-Doo). Together, they would ride with the neighbors across the nearby fields, lakes and woods.

As a youngster, I had to wait until I turned twelve to be able to operate a snowmobile. I also had to pass the Minnesota Snowmobile Safety exam which had two parts, a written test and a driving test on a designated course.

My father felt as if his snowmobile was too powerful for his twelve-year-old rookie son, and was therefore reluctant to let me operate it. Instead, I was forced to practice for my test on my mother’s snowmobile. On the day of the exam, my mother stated that she didn’t feel comfortable driving me behind her and asked my father to put me on the back of his machine. The three of us jumped on the two snowmobiles to set out on the two-mile journey to the test site – me with my father – and my mother on her snowmobile.

My father’s snowmobile had been purchased new, but my mother’s had seen better days. After years of use, one of the front skis on her vehicle had cracked and was welded back together. Unfortunately, on our journey to the test site, the weld on the old ski gave way. The broken ski dug into the ground and catapulted my mother over the windshield into the snow.

My mother was not injured. However, she was not happy about the broken ski. My parents exchanged a few heated words about her “pile of junk” snowmobile and somewhere amidst there loud discussion, they remembered my impending test.

My father inspected the broken ski and forced it back together, with the fractured edges overlapping each other. He convinced my mother to get back on the snowmobile, and we set out at five miles per hour for the rest of the way, arriving at the test site just in time.

I passed the written test. When it came time to complete the safety course, I began to worry. I pictured myself on my mother’s snowmobile being thrown over the windshield halfway through the test. I shared my worries with my parents. My parents agreed that I should ride by my father’s snowmobile instead, since an accident would be an automatic failure on the course.

To everyone's delight, I was able to handle my father’s snowmobile and passed the test! I rode behind my father on the way home, feeling triumphant that I could now drive a snowmobile by myself. My mother followed slowly behind, nursing the broken ski the whole way. Even though she had gone through a rough day, she could not have been happier or prouder of her son’s accomplishment.

On Mother’s Day, I reflect on all the times my mother demonstrated sacrifice and love for me and my family. Despite the unsafe conditions, she trudged on through our journey driving a broken snowmobile - just so that I could take my safety test. Even though her trip was in vain since I never drove her vehicle, she believed in me and wanted me to pass the test. She never complained. Instead, she celebrated my accomplishment.

Happy Mother’s Day! Today, we honor and celebrate all of the mothers in our Malden Catholic community and appreciate the tremendous gifts they give to us every day.

John K. Thornburg