I've been thinking, lately, in light of the dim economic news, about the way we view the truly poor.
The first person who comes to mind is my grandmother. I can see her at her kitchen sink, re-using the wax paper; running to turn out a light; skinning squirrels, deer and rabbits her husband shot.
Mabel was poor by any means you measure — alcoholic father, fourth-grade education, no job. She owned nothing until her second widowhood, when she got a small house at age 70.