One of my earliest memories is of my mother's ruffled pillow shams. I never tired of standing and looking admiringly at them.

They had pictures all over them -- pictures embroidered in red. And there was something else that I did not understand.

One day I asked my mother what the other stuff was and she said they were words that the lady in the pictures was speaking.

I looked again at the pictures. In the one on the left, the lady was sleeping and beautiful flowers and things surrounded her.

"What are these words?" I asked.

"I slept and dreamed that Life was Beauty," she read out.

I looked at the lady on the right sham. She was very much awake. She was sweeping the floor with a big broom and things around her were not beautiful. Instead, they looked like more work waiting to be done.

"And what is she saying here?"

"I woke and found that Life was Duty," she said.

So work was Duty and you had Beauty only when you slept? Why couldn't you have a little Beauty during the day? And you didn't always dream about beautiful things. Sometimes your dreams were pretty bad. And scary.

It didn't make sense to me.

As I grew older and watched our family grow (another three younger than I) I saw my mother doing her Duty by working -- no, drudging! -- all day long.

On Sundays, after Mass -- and after the noon meal -- she would sometimes sit and rest (if she hadn't invited another family home from church to have dinner with us!). Then she did her Duty by getting a company meal on the old woodburning range, even in the hottest weather.

Usually the woman would help a little, and I guess they visited while they worked.

Afterward, the families would visit for a while and, by the time the company left, it was time to start getting supper --- and her day of rest was done.

Up at four in the morning -- in bed at nine in the evening. So her days of Duty went.

Add to this the fact that she had a deafened ear which pained her non-stop and "a bad back" (diagnosis for anything wrong with your back, in those days) which hurt so terribly that she could hardly walk.

Between her ear and her back and a constant fatigue, I imagine her dreams were anything but beautiful.

As we kids grew older we took over the garden, the chickens, the washing and ironing, carrying wood and water, scrubbing, cleaning and so on.

But she would never let us cook. Why, I never knew.

In her later years she discovered radio contests and writing poetry.

All of her spare time now was spent in a rocker by the radio, tablet and pencil handy. The contests she won kept us supplied with various foods and necessities.

Too, she won some really nice things; among them, she won for each girl in the family -- and for herself -- a lovely handmade "wishing ring." Of heavy silver, the ring was an exquisitely crafted orchid.

She wrote many, many poems, most of them the short homespun type. Yet she was capable of writing in a style equal to that of any of the old greats.

I remember finding, one day, a poem she had written -- a poem of such form and beauty that I was astounded. It was truly a beautiful thing and so wonderfully imaginative!

"Why don't you write more like this?" I asked.

I do not recall her answer; perhaps she did not answer me at all.

At any rate, I never found another of her poems to equal -- or even touch -- that one. I suppose she preferred writing about the simple things of everyday life rather than drawing heavily from the imagination -- or from times long past.

Her poems were published and she corresponded regularly with several people who had written to tell her how much they enjoyed reading them.

Perhaps in these years she found -- in spite of her pain -- a little of the Beauty she had dreamed of when she was young.

I like to think she did.