Dave Spriggs

My mother, around 1964

My mother, Rita, was born in 1944 to Clifford and Ruth Pence — the youngest of four and the last of them still living. She was always close to her three older brothers, Paul, Don, and Troy. Paul, the oldest, died in 2024.

She grew up in Campbell’s Creek, West Virginia. Her father was a coal miner and her mother a homemaker, and the family didn’t have electricity until she was in middle school. Despite their limited means, she describes the family as “wealthy” — rich in love for each other and faith in God. She was a good student and enjoyed growing up in West Virginia. When she was a 17-year-old senior in high school, the family relocated to Michigan. That was a major adjustment for her.

She earned a bachelor’s degree in education at Michigan State University and had an exemplary career as a high school English teacher. At Bath High School she sponsored several senior trips and led the drama program, and she was listed in Who’s Who Among America’s Teachers. Decades after she retired, former students still call and visit her.

She met Jerry Spriggs and they married in 1969. She raised two boys, my brother Matt and me. She was wonderfully patient and kind with us, and she sacrificed for our family in more ways than I understood at the time. I had health problems as a baby and a young child, and she wouldn’t leave the hospital until I was discharged — often sitting up in a chair beside my bed all night. She made sure Matt and I felt loved and celebrated on our birthdays, at school events, and at every other milestone.

She was meticulous about remembering birthdays and anniversaries, and not only for family. She kept shelves of greeting cards for every occasion, along with her mailing lists. Sending cards and gifts was nearly a full-time job. Even after Matt and I were grown, her love for babies and small children never faded. Several neighbors thought of her as a surrogate grandmother, and she kept sending them cards for years.

My mother in her kitchen

My mother is remarkably intuitive and empathic, and unusually gifted at encouraging people. Julie and I lived with my parents for a few years after we married in 1996, and Julie came to know her well in that time.

In 2021, my mother began a serious health decline. It has been very hard on her, but I still see her kind heart in our time together. Over the past few years she has lost the ability to send cards and to keep track of the dates that mattered so much to her. I imagine a lot of people have noticed, and miss hearing from her.

I work in the mental health field, and I find it deeply fulfilling to help people work through what’s hurting them. Julie once told me I inherited my mother’s emotional sensitivity. I took that as a high compliment — I am very proud of my mother’s kind and giving heart.

I am sure that much of my best work with patients traces back to her. In a real way, I think of her as present in it — and I doubt I’m the only one who feels that. Her health has interrupted the cards and the calls, but not the kindness behind them. That is still going, carried now by the people who received it.

My mother and me