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The first time Emma Lou the poet ever called me was after she'd read something I'd written about funerals and how I wanted people to tell funny stories at mine. Also, I said, I wanted bagpipes. Lots and lots of bagpipes. BRING ON THE NOISE, PEOPLE! I wanted a big old-fashioned sprawling unscripted nondidactic nonsolemn funeral with ham and potatoes and every kind of Jell-O salad ever invented for my friends and family afterward.

You're welcome, friends and family!

It's funny. I was only in my 30s when I wrote that piece, but in those days I had definite ideas for my funeral the way some young women have definite ideas for their wedding. Now that I'm older, ironically, I don't care very much about my sendoff. I feel like Lou Grant in that classic episode from the old "Mary Tyler Moore Show" called "Chuckles Bites the Dust." After the funeral, Lou tells his co-workers, "I don't want anybody to make a fuss. When I go, I just want to be stood outside in the garbage with my hat on."

My family can do what they want for my funeral, as long as they wrap up the service part in an hour or less. If there's anything I despise in life (and apparently in death), it's another long boring meeting.

But that's not the point. The point is this: Emma Lou, whom I'd never met in person at that point, somehow found my number and called me out of the blue to say she'd enjoyed my column. And I appreciated that call because here was a woman who'd been writing and publishing for years. She knew from firsthand experience how it felt to have a deadline. She knew the frustration — and also the weird joy — of trying to make words fit together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. She knew what a challenge it was to carve out enough personal time to write in the thick of family living.

And there she was. A writer. Telling me I could do it. Telling me I was already doing it. Mentoring me.

That wasn't the only time I heard from Emma Lou. Before she died in 2014, she'd call periodically to see how the writing was going. Her voice was a handshake — direct and confident, encouraging and warm. I came to think of Emma Lou as a happy warrior, helping younger writers to keep on fighting the good fight, to keep on speaking.

And, of course I wasn't the only person to whom she extended a firm helpful hand. She provided safe harbor for the words of so many others.

With Mother's Day coming up this week, I've been thinking about all the ways women can be mothers. And choosing to mentor is just one of those ways. For decades I watched my own mother act as a mentor to young women who found themselves in the pressured places she resided because of her husband's high-stress profession. My mom didn't give those women advice unless asked. But she did say hey, here I am. I'm doing this. So can you. And, while we're all at it, let's make a cookbook (which they did) and have a little fun along the way.

Well done, Mom.

Anyway, here's what am I thinking. Let's all remember the women who've draped a metaphorical arm around our shoulders throughout the years and told us to keep at it. Then let's say thank you for the noticing, thank you for the kindnesses.

Happy Mother's Day.

Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.