Who's a Saint

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!