I sometimes wonder if my parents’ generation was stronger, more accepting of trials and tribulations, and tougher than I am in the face of the challenges life brings. Mothers, in particular, had to be resilient as they raised children in the Depression, World War II, the 50’s and 60’s and all that followed.

I know firsthand about tough love. My two mothers were fighters, and at the same time affectionate, stubborn, complicated women of their era. Both are gone now, but leave a legacy in my life of taking on hard times and hard decisions.

My mother, Winifred Rinehart, was widowed with two young children when she married my soon-to-be father, Buell Tubbs, in 1945. He was a drill sergeant, fresh out of the Marine Corps, and they came to Ely to run Camp Van Vac, which was started by my great-aunt and uncle, Kate and Van Harris. My dad was an incredibly strong worker who took over a rustic resort with kerosene lanterns for light and no running water. Soon, guests in the 24 cabins had electricity and no longer had to walk to the spring for drinking water. My mom kept the home fires burning (literally, in the wood stove), put robust meals on the table for our large family, welcomed the guests and ran the office.

Winnie was a registered nurse. She liked to tell about her training at Michael Reese Hospital in Chicago, where she rotated through the psych unit. One day she was alone in a room with an angry man who picked up a chair and swung it up over her head. She looked at him, steely-eyed, and ordered, “Put that down.” And he did.

I remember the day my dad walked into the kitchen dripping blood with an ax stuck into his shin, and the calm with which my mother dealt with the trauma and got him to the hospital.

She raised my two half-siblings, myself and two cousins who came to live with us as family, and while we grumbled about her being too darned bossy, we also enjoyed a lot of laughs and Sunday night popcorn dinners. Winnie had strong opinions about how my life should be run but, thank goodness, seemed perfectly happy having a daughter who wore dungarees, caught frogs and climbed trees. Mom had breast cancer and a mastectomy at age 40 and suffered from depression in her later years, in an age when no one talked about cancer or mental health. Tough stuff.

After my mother died in 1982, my father remarried, introducing me to his second wife, Helen, in 1984. Helen’s first husband Paul Kuentzel had suffered a brain injury as a young man, but the knowledge that he would always need care didn’t stop Helen from loving and marrying him. They gave their two children, Paula and Doug, happy childhoods and welcomed the neighborhood kids into their home, even the two who had been kicked out of the church choir for acting up. Helen was fierce in loving the children and a true advocate for her husband as his condition deteriorated. Tough stuff.

She also found joy in her second marriage to my father, and she and I became good friends over the years.

The year that Dad and Helen married, my husband, Tom Speros, who has since passed on, wrote a bit of doggerel for a group of campers who used to meet in the winter in the Twin Cities to tell stories about their summers at Van Vac. He knew they’d be surprised when they heard that my dad was remarrying. It always makes me grin when I read his poem, and perhaps it’s fitting to share an excerpt on Mother’s Day.

“Van Vac folks think the world about Buell, / When they see him, around him they swarm./They gather each winter on reunion night, /And allow that his bark is much worse than his bite, / And they say that he’s smart, and by golly they’re right! / ‘Cause he’s out on the Coast where it’s warm.

“He’s spending the winter in San Diego / By the ocean, just watching the tide. / When he comes back to camp in the spring / There’s lots of new things he’ll want to bring, / And one is a lady who’s wearing his ring / ‘Cause in March Buell makes Helen his bride.

This verse is called vamping, a term used in jazz, “While you gulp and you struggle for breath. / Miss Helen is charming, Miss Helen is pretty, / Miss Helen is bright and she’s really quite witty, / She’s not used to Camp, we’re both from the city, / We’d say more, but we’ve not met her yet.”

Early on, Helen challenged my practice of careful reticence around her, and I decided to share with her bits and pieces of my daily life—where things got hard or goofy, where I wasn’t so skilled or easy going. I found that I could trust her to listen and not to judge.

My stepmother, Helen Tubbs, died this year at age 92 on Jan. 23 in Leesburg, Virginia, with her daughter Paula at her side. She had struggled her way back from pneumonia and strokes, infections and injuries, and she went out fighting like the trouper she was.

My life is challenging at times—joyous some days and difficult on others—probably much like yours. The trees are budding out, there are 24 cabins to vacuum and a summer full of unknowns to face. I’m looking forward to it, perhaps, in part, because I was lucky to have two mothers. And on this Mother’s Day, I’m glad they were both loving, and both tough.