What new can be said about Mother's Day? Allow me some personal reflections.

Although it's nice for us to honor our moms every second Sunday in May, we should do it every day.

To use the words of a friend, "Most young kids don't truly respect their mothers. Too often, parents are just used."

I'm not going to generalize about why that observation rings true today. Suffice to say, "Times they are a-changin."

As I write this May 6, I am reminded that the Hindenburg disaster happened on this date in 1937, a month before I was born.

I have a small, wooden piece of the huge craft, the death throes of which are imbedded in my psyche. A member of the ground crew at Lakehurst, N.J., gave it to my dad as a souvenir a day after the actual event.

What does it have to do with Mother's Day? That hunk of the Hindenburg sat on my dad's office desk until he died. I heard my practical mother ask often, "Why do you keep that worthless piece of wood hanging around?"

Each time she attempted to throw it away, my dad retrieved it.

"Alta Grace," he would patiently explain, "This is a piece of history. I need to save it for posterity."

She would shake her head and walk away.

I picked it up many times, trying to imagine what those moments were like as it erupted into an inferno and crashed to the ground. I have a copy of the "live" recording made by reporter Herb Morrison on the scene. His impassioned words, "Oh, the humanity," can never be forgotten by anyone who has heard them.

My dad wanted me to have that piece of the Hindenburg, and it is a prized possession. We always thought it was part of a propeller; but experts at Lakehurst tell me they have never seen a piece like it. Their best guess is that it is a chunk of the wooden bar railing from the giant zeppelin.

I have written often of my late mother's impact on my life. Most of her lessons for me were hard-learned because I was a stubborn and impetuous child.

Thank goodness my mother lived long enough for me to thank her properly for her unique nurturing. I am loath to admit that, like so many youth today, I didn't really appreciate either of my parents until their latter years.

My mother read to me from the moment of my birth and taught me to appreciate the written word long before I went to school.