It’s not that my mother doesn’t care if her house looks nice.  She spends lots of time and energy making her nest cozy and warm and beautiful.  She has paper plates on hand for emergencies, but otherwise they won’t be used unless there’s a picnic.  The good dishes aren’t reserved for special occasions or adults.  She knows that good times and beauty go together.

  But tops on her priority list is making family members and friends feel loved and happy.  Dignity of the person comes first.  Fun and games rate high; tramping mud in on the carpet by a four-year-old with more important things on his mind ranks low.  “That’s all right--don’t worry about that for a second,” she says to the child who’s just been reprimanded by his parents, and to the adults.  “Come on over here by the fire and get warm.”

  After a few days, the house is a wreck--nothing that can’t be cleaned up, but just generally messy--the way it looks when 15 or 20 people play and eat and do things together.  Mother is always focused on the food aspect of the celebration, though.  “What can I get you to eat?”  “Would you like a banana shake, or an orange Julius?”  (This last question comes about 10:00 p.m. when no one can possibly hold anything else solid.)  Mother runs the portable vacuum when people are outside, and straightens enough to make us feel snug again--but no one sees her do it.

  I know there must be other mothers and grandmothers who forget about their carpets and their furniture and their grocery bills when special occasions bring everyone together.  There must be persons that smart and that loving somewhere else.  I don’t know them, though.  I only know my mother, and I know the legacy she’s leaving to her children, her grandchildren, and her great-grandchildren.

  And I know that each of us would rather have that legacy than a rug with no spots, a quilt that hadn’t been slept under, or any piece of furniture in her home.