A fond memory I
have of Mother
Is one of watching her crochet
She could really make those needles fly
And always made it seem like play
I figured it must be easy to do
'Cause Mother didn't have to look down
She'd watch T.V. or talk and tend to the kids
While she added more rows around
I asked her one day to teach me how
And that poor woman really tried
I never did master the art of crochet
Even with an expert as my guide
Beautiful scarves adorned the furniture
Pillow cases were trimmed with lace
All made by Mother's capable hands
Everything in its own place
Then came the time she got the idea
She would attempt to do something new
Instead of crochet thread, she used yarn
And still her nimble fingers flew
No longer were the delicate scarves
Turned out by Mother's own hands
She made us colorful caps and mittens
And crocheted to beat the band
The only problem with this task
Was that the things she made looked awful
We got knitted caps and mufflers
I know she was just being thoughtful
Through the years, she turned out loads
Of Afghans, pocketbooks and rugs
In colors outlandishly mismatched
We accepted them, but with shrugs
I never had the heart to tell her
That I was ashamed to use the surprises
She worked so hard to make for me
With all the odd colors and sizes
One year, just before Christmastime
Mother said she was making me a scarf
Just the thought of wearing that thing
Made this old gal want to barf
I felt so guilty for the thoughts I had
She had made it when she was hardly able
It was a round and beautiful red and green scarf
That still graces my Christmas table
