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Poem

I read a poem about
      a mother, a saintly mother,
      who, with knotted and veined
      hands, crocheted blankets 
and booties and mittens
for grandchildren, 
      who made lemonade
      and cookies for after school,
who canned and pickled and
	made sarsaparilla, jam, and bread.
Certainly not my mother.  

My mother was a clubwoman,	
      member, sometimes president,
      often working on a project
      while the peas burned.
She fed us meat, potatoes, and vegetables,	
	but she hated the kitchen
	and housework. 
Her major vices were cigarettes, quite
  	often Manhattans and one 
        we don’t talk about.
She constantly bemoaned  
       she didn’t do anything “meaningful” 
       with her education; no one valued 
       her ideas, especially my dad.
She felt belittled, unimportant, and
      clubs fulfilled some of that need.

But who was it that kept everyone 
      in the family together?
During the Great Depression, who
       managed to keep us fed and clothed
       when Dad was out of work?
Who took care of her mother and 
       mother-in-law in the same house
       for more than five years?
Who cared for months for my Aunt Carol, flown
	home from overseas with kidney disease, 
	and who took in her three girls for “off-time” 
        the years they were State-side for education?
Who took in my dad’s brother, wife and
	two children for six months
        after my uncle lost his job?

Who welcomed children and grandchildren
	when the need arose, no matter
        how many people were already there?
Who cared for her mother-in-law
	in her dying weeks, when her daughter
 	refused to do so?
Who was always there for us in emergencies?
In spite of a sharp tongue that often stung,
	she kept us together when fate
        tried to decree otherwise.
In my mind that’s a kind of saint!
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