Reatha Mary Cardon. 

Her name was as unique as she was, and utterly timeless and old-school. She was exactly the mom I needed—not a heavy-handed disciplinarian, nor a ‘cool’ mom, nor a ‘best friend’. She was my mom, and I her boy, Her sole concern was to show me how to be a good person. And in her humble, understated way, she was a master. Today I honor her beauty, having lost her yesterday. 

The Cardon family, originally “Cardone”, hailed from the Piedmont valley in the high Alps of northern Italy. They were known as the Vaudois, who originally lived peacefully as farmers and shepherds in the fertile valleys of Lyon, France. Devoted to living simple, morally governed lives, they adhered strictly to scripture, rejecting what they saw as Catholic embellishments. A Vaudois legend claims the apostle Paul taught them the way of Christianity while spreading the word throughout Europe. They devoted their community to perfecting the purity of the gospel while rejecting any adulteration of Biblical verse. 

The Vaudois were described as strong and resilient, egalitarian in practice, with both women and men participating in religious instruction. They lived by a strict moral code rooted in biblical principles. Priority was placed on being humble, honest, and hard-working, fiercely independent and caring for all in the community. They sought to create a utopian society with pure Christianity at its core. 

Their refusal to adopt Catholic doctrines drew centuries of persecution. From the 13th century onward, a succession of popes and rulers raised armies to engage in inquisitions and crusades against these pacifist farmers, with the mandate to convert them or exterminate them. Defenseless, they fled to the harsh Alps in a desperate quest to survive. The genocide committed against the Vaudois over 6 centuries reduced the population from several hundred thousand in the 1200’s to a mere 20,000 by 1848, when religious freedom was finally proclaimed. 

In the 1850’s, Mormon missionaries reached the Vaudois. Only two families embraced their message, including my mom’s. Her grandfather was the first Cardon born in America. I witnessed the Vaudois spirit in my mom and her father—kind to the core, humble, and quiet peaceful souls. My grandmother, by contrast, was a fiery, hilarious force. Her theatrics invariably left us in tears with laughter. She was my “swearing grandma”, but we weren’t allowed to use grandma’s words. Mom and grandpa attempted to dial her in with feeble “now mama…” pleas, but her zest was unstoppable.

My mom was the gentlest, kindest, most humble person I’ve known— self-sacrificing to a fault. A true introvert, she found peace at home, ironing clothes for working women while watching her shows. I struggled to convince her to raise her price from 25 to 50 cents per ironed shirt. I never heard her gossip or speak ill of anyone, even my father after their divorce. Conflict was foreign to her, and she refused to fight. It probably wasn’t her wisest idea to have 8 children, especially with our spirited brood. 

I was the fourth child. I inherited grandma’s feistiness yet always aspired to have mom’s tranquility. Merging those yin-yang elements—her calm and grandma’s fire—has essentially been my life’s challenge. Mom made it easier, guiding me gently without stifling my uniqueness. She never praised or criticized excessively, and never offered unsolicited advice. She simply modeled gentleness, kindness and humility, letting me learn through experience. When I faced conflicts, she listened patiently, then without fail expected me to take the high road and be the better person. At first it seemed like she never took my side, but she was teaching me accountability. When my spirit faltered, she pointed out the goodness, strength, and gifts in my personality. I believe she knew me to the core, better than anyone. 

In my teens, I devoured self-help books in a quest to master her effortless virtues. On my mission, she was the only person who wrote to me every week. My mission president said I was the only one he could assign to anyone and know we would get along. That was because I was my mom’s boy. 

Her best friend was a rather tall, very large woman we called Aunt Margie. Margie never married, but was the sweetest version of a more spirited type. Through this friendship, mom taught us to reject prejudice and embrace respect for all. She taught that if my attention is drawn to someone due to an aspect about them that made their life harder or vulnerable to rejection or harassment, my next thought should be what I can do to make their life better or to make them feel more loved. 

She was a rare Mormon liberal. She was contented that her Kennedyesque democratic vote nullified my father’s vote. She observed my propensity to stand up to bullies and stand up for the “little guy”, and was prouder of me for doing that than for anything else I did. Years later, when my colleagues disparaged me by labeling me an “underdog advocate” for standing up for a colleague, I took their intended insult as a badge of honor. After all, I was my mom’s boy.

On the day her divorce finalized, I went to see her. Her tears weren’t for the lost relationship but the death of her dream of a lifelong marriage. She never dated again. When grandma died, I found her in tears again. Although in her 60’s at the time, she was overwhelmed at being the senior matriarch without having her mom to lean on. And now it’s my turn to face the world without her. 

Our bond shaped how I relate to women— her calmness elicited my gentleness yet balanced my energy. I became accustomed to a bond with a calm soul. I loved making her laugh and often pushed the limits of irreverence until I got her corrective “now Kent…” That’s all she had to say to dial me in. This yin-yang dance was our style. 

She often went without, wearing worn shoes, never pretentious, yet hard to not love.  Invariably she would gently touch the forearm of others as they spoke, owning their hearts with her gentle touch and soft words. 

After the divorce, some siblings took sides, and she lost ties with a few. She handled this with grace, giving her efforts to those who wanted her in their lives while humbly respecting others’ choices to move on, never forcing her presence or adding to their pain. 

Yesterday, my sister texted that mom passed that morning. The heartbreak was overwhelming. I went alone to the river, sat with my feet in the water, and communed with her memory.

I carry our Vaudois heritage, grandma’s zest, and mom’s tutelage with pride. As I walked to the river, I played a song fitting for the moment. Yet the next song that played—Tim McGraw’s “Humble and Kind”—felt heaven-sent. The song captured her essence, and summarized her lifelong mentoring message to me. And it’s all I aspire to be, so once again I can put a smile on that beautiful face. It was a gift of life to call that precious soul my mom.