Most of my best traits, qualities and characteristics are the legacy of my mother.

Arlene Virginia Bammer (nee Matney) was, above all else, a role model, from the moment I was born one minute after my twin sister also arrived in a Franklin, Ind., hospital. My mother continues to be a role model to this very day, Mother’s Day, and certainly will be every day I have left on Earth.

I may get an argument from my surviving brother and sisters, but she was a strong parent and who showed me how to live a moral life in this world, to take responsibility for my actions and to help others in need.

One of my earliest memories was her forcing me, as a 3 year old living on Tachikawa Air Force Base outside Tokyo, to apologize to some neighbor boys for participating in a dirt clod fight. Lined up next to my wayward compatriots — there were three of us, I recall — I faced those I had battled and said, “I’m sorry.”

It was a good lesson, one that, today as a adult, I realize it is essential to admit promptly to transgressions of any kind, to “clean house,” as it were, to make moral repairs with others when necessary, and to move on with my life, vowing not to do more stupid stuff.

My mother showered me with kisses and hugs, no doubt, when I was an infant and toddler (and also did the same for my other four siblings) while my father, a young Army officer, was serving in South Korea and later Japan in the early 1950s. Her affections probably helped my brain development in some ways and, to this day, is a source of happiness, even if the memories are somewhat vague.

But she also showed affection in her own way by telling jokes and allowing me to watch “Captain Kangaroo,” “The Howdy Doody Show” and “The Mickey Mouse Club” on TV. And I clearly recall cold winter days at Fort Eustis, Va., my hands mildly frostbitten from sledding for hours down a nearby hillside, when she turned on Leonard Bernstein’s “Young People’s Concerts” and I sat there mesmerized by the musicians’ artistry and the classical sounds of Prokofiev’s “Peter and the Wolf.” She helped to spark my interest in all kinds of music, from rock to Rachmaninoff, that continues to this day.

Like so many good mothers, mine was patient, even though, in my early days, she had to take care of five of us while my father was overseas again, including South Vietnam, from 1956 to 1957. I can only imagine she was frustrated and stressed often, living on my father’s meager monthly military allotment check in Vallejo and Petaluma, where my family lived in the early and mid-1950s. Despite my occasional screw-ups, she never, as I remember, used hurtful words to correct me. As I grew up, I wish I had always adhered to her positive example, that harsh words will not solve difficult situations and only prolong resolutions.

My mother was forgiving when I made a mistake. She also was optimistic and positive when correcting my behavior. They are traits I’d like to model more often than I do as an adult, as resentments, lingering without resolution, can lead to distractions, other problems and a rabbit hole of despair.

She was respectful of my opinions, even as a child, and definitely as I grew up, especially my political opinions as an adult. We shared political philosophies.

My mother was the daughter of a plumber, raised in rural Kansas and Missouri, where for a year or two in the late 1930s and early 1940s studied to be a teacher, and, from time to time, she worked as a substitute teacher. Today, if she were alive, she would support working people, knowing of their struggles. She was loving and compassionate, traits and personal qualities she, in turn, learned from her parents.

My mother was my first teacher, laying the ground rules for my behavior and that of my siblings. Only now and then would she say things like “Wait until your father gets home,” a statement I always dreaded. She was always consistent, strong and reliable, again traits I should nurture more often because they have helped me to live a better life and cultivate deep and abiding friendships with several people.

Me and my twin sister, Diane, aka Dede, many times annoyed my mother, in part because we never took her too seriously as a disciplinarian, a job mostly left to my father. We rarely said to one another, “Wow, mom’s really mad,” because, somehow, she had a good sense of humor, which strengthened the bond between us.

When life took a sudden serious turn, my mother often was the emotional rock I needed. As a preteen and later as a junior in high school, there were stressful times when my father was on alert to be deployed to the Caribbean during the Cuban missile crisis in October 1962 and nearly five years later, in June 1967, when he and the combat-ready infantry brigade he commanded in Munich, West Germany (at the time), was on the verge of being deployed to the eastern Mediterranean during the Six-Day War in June 1967 in the Middle East. My mother was always the calming influence.

As for my less desirable traits, such as anger, my mother, understandably, expressed shock and would be the first to recommend that I seek help with a counselor and mental health counseling. Those were always valuable recommendations.

I’m more aware today of my strengths and flaws and try to emphasize the best traits, qualities and characteristics that I learned from the woman who brought me and my twin sister into the world. My gratitude is endless. Thanks, mom.

Richard Bammer is a Reporter staff writer.