My Mother’s Hands were rarely idle.  If she was awake, they were busy.  She had a confident “I can do it” attitude, and her work ethic was, “Nothing is too much trouble if it’s done with love.”

She bandaged boo-boos, dried tears and wiped runny noses.  She kept a spotless home with polished furniture, waxed floors and fresh white curtains in the windows. On laundry day she washed and ironed all of our clothes including daddy’s shirts, handkerchiefs and boxer shorts.  No disorder or wrinkles were ever allowed in our drawers or closets.

She had a proverbial green thumb. Rose bushes and a fig tree thrived under her tender loving care. She turned avocado pits and pineapple stalks into house plants and carefully nurtured her beautiful gardenias and African violets with just the right amount of water and sun.

Her culinary skills ran the gamut from creating great meals from whatever was on hand to following complex recipes to prepare ethnic dishes (mostly Polish) like Czarnina, a soup made with fresh duck’s blood, vinegar and prunes.  Actually it was quite delicious and one of my father’s favorites; and  zimne nogi (translated cold feet) which was an aspic made from jellied pig’s feet—a real old world delicacy.  Everybody loved her oatmeal cookies which we called “oaties”.  Her secret was making them with Crisco oil for just the perfect consistency.  A goodly supply as well as a few loaves of her own version of Irish soda bread were always on hand just in case someone stopped by for a visit.

Mom did many types of needlework: knitting, crocheting and embroidery and she was a masterful seamstress, making almost all of my clothes.  She would peruse the fashion magazines and boutiques, purchase fabric and combine patterns to create designer originals.  She also made Halloween costumes, doll outfits, and decorative home accessories like pillows and curtains.  She rescued abandoned pieces of furniture left at curbside and repainted, reupholstered or repurposed them.

There was nothing she wouldn’t try, and she did not limit herself to “ladylike pursuits” either.  Dad was not particularly handy around the house so Mom handled most of the repair and renovation jobs. Once she painted the back hallway of our two-family house, using a solid color for the top half of the wall and a sponge effect on the lower half to minimize fingerprints and smudges. The project took a lot of accurate measurement and precisely engineered scaffolding.  The result was masterful.  She also tackled wallpapering bedrooms and then making curtains and bedspreads to complete the décor.  She installed carpet treads on the stairs and crown molding in the dining room.

Mom predated Nike’s slogan, teaching us by her example that if you want something done “Just do it.”  We were not surprised by anything she did.  However, there was a time her ambition seemed to surpass even her own capability.  Several years after being widowed, when I was married, my sister was in medical school, and my brothers were in college, she decided she needed a new hobby so she enrolled in a woodworking class given for adults at the local high school.   At the first session the instructor asked what she would like to attempt for her first project—a foot stool, birdhouse or towel rack?  Those were the usual options.

His eyebrows must have hit his receding hairline when she said “I’m going to make a grandfather clock”.  “But you have to learn to use the special tools” he protested.  “I can learn to use them just as well making a grandfather clock,” she insisted.  Skeptical, he relented.  So she measured the lumber and cut the pieces for the wooden cabinet, sanded, stained and varnished them and put them together; then installed the glass panels in the door and inserted the pendulum, weights and mechanism.  The finished product was worthy of a Seth Thomas catalogue, and she presented it to us as a housewarming gift when we purchased our first home.

The clock stands today in our living room, still keeping perfect time.  It is the most valuable piece of furniture we own because it is the only one like it in the world.    Mom passed away in 2007 at the age of 89 and her hands are now still, but the hands of that clock keep going around as a reminder of my Mother’s wonderful hands.

 No tool in and of itself is of great importance; but placed in the proper hands, it can create a masterpiece. Jodi Eareckson Tada