The only problem I have with Women’s History Month (which is this month) or any other such month is that we tend to focus on the accomplishments of people most folks already know about.

We remember the Harriet Tubmans and Harriet Beecher Stowes — at least, we should — but outside of their own families, how many remember the Nullie Jacksons and Margaret Goldsworthys? They were my grandmothers, and they and other women who were just like them have contributed to our society in ways that lie beyond the ability of any man.

A photo of Grandmother Jackson on her wedding day shows a beautiful woman of 23, with her long hair drawn up in waves, wearing a high-collared blouse and jacket highlighted with lace and bows.

Her face is expressionless, except for a sense of calm. Back then, it was the custom to have one’s photo taken without a smile, which was too bad. Other photos taken later in her life show my grandmother the way I remembered her being when I was a child — a bit tired looking.

However, those were tired times. Grandfather Ernest was a clerk in a hardware store, and Nullie took in sewing ... mending and making clothes to earn a few extra dollars. She had a son and a daughter — Lohr (my uncle) and Ruth (my mother) — to raise, and every little bit helped. I have been told she was a magician with a needle and thread.

My mom — who once described herself as “a poor girl from McCoole” — grew up to be a teacher. Uncle Lohr became a branch manager for Swift & Company meats. Both attributed much of their success to their mother.

I remember exploring Grandmother Jackson’s closet when I was a little kid and finding a pair of ancient, but finely made high-top shoes that once were the height of women’s fashion. Could they have been the same shoes she wore on her wedding day?

Another photo shows her as a young woman, smiling and laughing with one of her friends, and I value it more than any other because it shows a facet of her that I rarely got to see.

Those who remember her have told me what a wonderful lady she was.

For as hard as times might have been, many families like hers were blessed with love and made the most of it.

The Jacksons had a sleigh, and Mom told me how they would hitch it to their horse, bundle up in warm clothes and blankets, heat some bricks and wrap them in towels to use as foot-warmers, then go dashing through the snow together on crisp winter nights.

I inherited the bells from that sleigh, but —to have gone for just one ride with them ... .

Grandmother Goldsworthy grew up on what you could call a farm in the same tired times that were Grandmother Jackson’s lot.

She was “Moggie” to her dogs and grandchildren, sometimes romping around the house with us and playing like the little girl she never really stopped being.

That said, if a problem needed to be dealt with, she could get on the phone and announce that “This is Mother Goldsworthy.” What happened next was, to my young ears, a formidable thing to witness.

She never raised her voice, nor was she abusive or intemperate in her language, but I always felt sorry for the poor soul she was dismantling — even if he richly deserved it.

Eight people lived in Moggie’s house: she and my grandfather (James E.), Dad (James W.), Aunt Penny, Uncle Abe, Great-Grandfather Goldsworthy  (James, who moved in after Great-Grandmother Margaret died in the great flu epidemic of 1918), Great-Uncle Paul and a girl who did chores in exchange for room and board.

For all these folks, there was only one bathroom. Dad and Penny talked about this arrangement in later years and didn’t remember that it ever caused a problem. They couldn’t understand why, but I always figured it had a lot to do with the lady who ran the place.

Margaret’s children grew up to be just as successful as Nullie’s: a high school principal (Dad), an executive in a major corporation (Penny) and the oldest continuously practicing barber in the state of West Virginia (Abe, who as an Army medic during World War II, kept men alive so they could go home to their loved ones).

Grandmother Goldsworthy often told me how she had enjoyed “doing for people,” particularly when they went to their camp on the river, and all the folks she cooked for when they came to visit.

Finally, Dad told me I should take that with a grain of salt. He said his mother had worked hard all of her life, and did it so willingly that he wondered if some folks hadn’t taken advantage of her unselfishness, her work ethic and her desire to “do for people.”

She did what she did, he said, because she believed it was the right thing to do. He told me this was the philosophy he had adopted, and I should do the same.

Dad said about the most fun his mom had, after all the cooking and cleaning were done at camp, was to put on her fishing duds and go down to the river to see if she could catch a bass. When she succeeded, that was a big moment.

My favorite photo of Moggie shows her face beaming with “Just look what I did!” and holding up a stringer fish for all to see.

She probably took them back to the camp and cleaned and cooked them so she could share them with the folks she she wanted to “do for.”

I hope that somehow, my grandmothers are aware of how much I love them, and how much better my world is because they were part of it.