The Diary Begins…

                                         It all began back in August of 1944 when my husband left Waterloo for Manson on the first step to realizing a long-cherished dream, a country newspaper. I was left with the children and the moving and the half-hearted consent that I might try my hand at writing a column for his new venture.

    I think I had an idea that I would write a Harlan Miller type of thing, very clever and sophisticated. the only handicap was that i wasn’t the least bit clever or sophisticated. So I hadn’t the slightest notion what kind of a column I would write, until one evening on the porch, I regaled a friend with an account of my hectic afternoon, filled with children, a cake, a frosting that got out of bounds, and the cleaning that didn’t get done.

    When my friend got through laughing, she said to me seriously, “Well, there’s column material, isn’t it? Write it down just like you told it to me and send it to Manson.”

    I had never really heard of a column like that, but I wrote it, sent it to Lloyd, along with a dissertation on six-year-old daughters. They were published under the heading “Mother’s Diary” and thus it was that I was burdened with a weekly chore that so far no one has allowed me to abandon. – Grace Jones.

Mother’s Diary – August 10, 1944

           

    When my six year old daughter acts like she does, I close my eyes and count, “one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten – it’s her age, I hope.” I tell my friends that right now she’s going through a difficult period and they are courteous enough not to remind me that I’ve been saying that for the last six years.

    And the mothers of adolescent daughters laugh raucously, “Just wait til she’s 13.” So I wonder where turmoil ends and calm begins. It seems to me that there must be some delicious interval where behavior is civilized and worry is nil. However, if my observations are correct, I believe all three of mine have already passed that interval.

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    If you discount diapers and formulas, I rather think the first year is the ideal period. Perhaps I will truly realize this with my sixth and won’t say to myself, “When I no longer have to wash diapers, I can really enjoy my young.”

   For in the second year is learning to walk, and broken lamps and falling down stairs; the third year is calling the police to locate a wandering child five or six blocks away and the first swear word spoken innocently, but oh so aptly, in front of dinner guests; the fourth year is discontent, too young to do the things they want to do and too old to do the things they can do; the fifth year is kindergarten, concern over clothes, a sudden alarming independence wherein mothers and fathers are merely obstacles to fun, and an intensified aversion to rest in the afternoons; the sixth year – but this is where I came in. Who brought this up anyway?    

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    Either I’m lazy or I estimate beyond my strength. I always have such plans. I avidly read all fascinating magazines and newspaper recipes and dream of the herbs and flavors which will make meals “different.” But somehow the same old meat, vegetable, salad routine finds its way to my table. With an apple pie thrown in occasionally for variety.

   And when the grocery boy delivered the crate of peaches, I could see in my mind’s eye the peach pies, peach cobblers, broiled peach halves and upside down cake. I was going to make – and a little jam, too, maybe. The last peach is gone now and we ate every last one, sliced with sugar and cream. Either I’m lazy or I estimate beyond my strength.

Mother’s Diary – August 31, 1944

 

     If you have two small boys and I have, rainy days are terrific – especially three or four in a row. I don’t know why, but on those days, they wake up early and go to sleep late. For my part, I can sleep long and beautifully on rainy mornings, but that’s another story, and besides my intimates would say, “What’s rain got to do with your sleeping in the morning?”

     I know many articles have been written concerning “How to Entertain Your Child on Rainy Days,” but they never seem to help me or mine. I get full of ideas and plans and decide to fill up that emergency “Things to Do Box” and be prepared but when the day of weeping skies comes, I’m the kind of mother who gives each child a cookie and a push and says, “Go play,” and “Don’t bother me,” and “I’m busy.” And I go up to scrub the bathroom, presently coming down to find the downstairs bed piled high with contents of boxes, drawers and cupboards. Positively everything there, from tomorrows laundry to the books on the correspondence course I never completed. (And where did they find those anyway? I didn’t know where they were.) I irately demand an explanation and restitution and am met with the reasonable, “But we were dump trucks. We had to have something to dump, didn’t we?”

     I decide it is all my fault for not providing amusement so I haul out old newspapers and scissors and get the boys settled in the middle of the floor. All goes well until that potent silence descends, that all mothers know so well, so I rush from the kitchen and, of course, I might have known. They are sitting in the midst of scattered hairs, and two pair of eyes gaze, suddenly stricken, from under ragged thatches of what were once 75-cent haircuts. Scissors are confiscated and Steve wails, “But I was making us beautiful for Manson!” Beautiful indeed!

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     The time for bathes and naps finally arrives and I think my troubles are nearly over, but the bathes present hazards I had not dreamed of. While I vigorously cleanse them, they raise wash cloths high and drop them with mighty splashes, shrieking “Bombs away!” I unthinkingly reach for the bar of soap, to have my nerves and ears shattered with “Put it down! You can’t pick up a speed boat like that!”

     I send them to their bedrooms while I wearily mop up the bathtub and surrounding territory. Then I encounter them prancing about in the hall and command, “Get into bed, now, both of you,” and Steve pauses long enough to reprove me, “You mustn’t talk to us. We’re a parade.”

     More and the same of this throughout the rest of the day and Daddy at long last gets home to relieve the situation and after a half hour of them, he asks “Isn’t it time for these boys to go to bed?”

     Ah me – rainy days. If I were master of the weather, I would arrange for all rain between one and three o’clock in the afternoons and between nine and five o’clock at night. The rest of the time, we’d have, as the youngsters say, “Shinyness.”

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      Band concerts are nearly over and I’m sorry. I like them. I like the music and everything that goes with it. I like the excitement and heightened tension along Main Street as nine o’clock draws near. There are scattered groups of men and women on the sidewalks, especially at the street corners and stray bits of political discussions and canning achievements catch your ear. There is bustling activity in all the stores and while you’re buying tooth powder, suddenly the music begins and all transactions and conversation take on an added glamour, with such a stirring background. Your step quickens and your laughter is freer, as you hurry to the scene, which any other day or evening, is just a side street, but now it is an enchanted crowded spot. You stand or sit, outwardly calm, but filled with that heady, holiday giddiness that comes with the mingling of music, laughter, and the smell of popcorn and ice cream cones dripping down small fronts. Boys and girls stroll across the street consciously, unconscious of eyes upon them. A little girl with dark curls happily skips in perfect time with the band. A horde of millers flutters about the brightened heads of the players. A small boy pipes up, “What’s that man standing up there shaking a stick at those guys for?” And a hasty explanation that he’s the director to show them when to play fast or slow or loud or soft seems inadequate to describe a complicated profession, so masterfully done. A baby cries. Finally, the Star Spangled Banner, and a concerted uprising. Everyone stands quiet and attentive, may thoughts are far away with absent loved ones, until the end. All except my youngest, who finds himself more tired than patriotic, and sits all alone on the curb.

     I do like band concerts. But one more, and that’s all for this season. I’m sorry, too. Thanks band players and director Peer for a fine job and we’ll be seeing you next summer at the same old stand.

 

Mother’s Diary – September 7, 1944

                

    I went to the fair. I walked down Midway, reveling in the smell of popcorn, hot coffee, hamburgers and mustard. I listened to shouts and laughter, and the call of the barkers. I watched the Ferris wheel and the swings and children in the kiddie rides. I drank coffee and ate popcorn. I played bingo with one eye on the bread box on the top shelf. The other eye was busy watching my neighbors, and I was happily eating popcorn, so it took the concerted effort of my sister, at my right, a young lad at my left, and an unknown woman behind me to get any of the corn on the right numbers. When I got up the bingo operator was richer by twenty cents, and the bread box still reposed on the top shelf, and I went away with one longing backward look. I am not good at bingo. And I play bridge in much the same manner.      

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    In the grandstand, I sat behind a row of friends and relatives of some of the 4-H girl performers, so I felt practically back stage. One of the mothers I would like to know personally. She retained her serenity and good humor throughout the agonizing wait for the inevitable member who didn’t show up until the last minute. She sat sturdy and undaunted, under the avalanche of coats and purses to be held until it was over, but she was as fluttery and breathless as the rest when their folk dances went on, and giggled like a girl with the others, at the girls hopping about in their long costumes and straw hats. She must be a very nice mother to have.      

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    I was really and truly impressed with parts of the pageant, especially the Country Girls’ Creed. Unaccountably the old war song, “How You Gonna Keep ‘em Down on the Farm,” rang through thoughts, as I listened. We have been hearing a lot lately about how our boys are going to find it difficult to settle down in hometowns and farms to humdrum living, after their adventures abroad. It seems to me – of course, I really know nothing about it, but lack of knowledge nowadays, seems to be no handicap in expressing your opinion – it seems to me that the farms and the small towns are going to be so welcome to the returning soldier – like settling down with a grateful sigh in your own bed at night after a long, exhausting cay. And girls like these club girls, working and waiting in these same small towns and farm homes, maturing graciously in the life they love, are going to be a strong factor in keeping the boys contented and settled. I believe they must have meant every word spoken in the pageant; they seemed so earnest, so they must carry out their ideals in their daily living. Irrepressibly, though, I wondered how many of them, the next day, would complain as usual over the breakfast dishes. It’s not so easy to be noble about the little things.

Mother’s Diary – September 14, 1944

               

                                  We joined the church last Sunday. And for once, our daughter got in on a big event in our lives. She was most indignant this past summer when her grandmother was telling her of our wedding, because we didn’t wait until she was “old enough to come to the wedding, too.” When I lined up the three of them to explain what would take place in the church, she inquired into our past history and was further incensed to discover that we had taken turns keeping her at home while we joined the church separately in Waterloo.

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    So they were all there this time. Very much there. As we stood before the minister, the youngest ambled down the aisle and stood up with us, flaunting his most ingratiating smile. Later, back at our seats, he became restless and fell under the pews a time or two, howled once just to relieve his boredom, I guess, and was hastily removed by his father.

√

    The other two twisted and wriggled and whispered, while the back of my neck got redder and redder. My only consolation was the plaintive tones of another youngster who kept asking for an ice cream cone.

    However, I have already forgotten how the children behaved, in the glowing memory of the welcome we received after the services.

√

    My husband has one besetting sin. He adores taking walks with his family en masse. And he invariably suggests said walks after a late supper (his fault) when the youngsters have been playing in the plowed garden all afternoon, and I have been ironing, or canning, and have reached the evening with my hair still uncombed and my overalls unchanged. After all these years I realize the futility of objections, so I reluctantly turn my back on that beloved second cup of coffee in the living room, and gird myself for battle. We do the dishes in a flurry of suds and clanking of silver, and the children are urged upstairs for baths and clean clothing. I prepare my own person in between supervising ears, hunting for shoelaces, tying ribbons, and dressing two squirming small boys. We always have to search madly throughout the house for at least one shoe. Presently, they’re all standing around waiting for me, wondering audibly why I’m not ready, and then we’re off. I note, wearily, that the boys’ hands are dirty already, and I don’t feel too well-groomed, but after the first block or two, I am as eager for adventure as the rest, and I vow that after this, I shall always have myself and the children cleaned up, ready for anything by six o’clock. But a couple evenings later, my husband gets that look in his eye, and there we are, all disheveled and very unready, and I gird myself for the same old battle.

√

    The water in Manson is wonderful for bathing very dirty boys – no hard black ring at the water line afterward! I have only one complaint – the soap disappears awfully fast. I heard of one resident’s experience when she was new here. She said they left the children in the tub and went about their business. Suddenly, loud shouts of joy and laughter, and splashing recalled them to the bathroom. And what a scene met them. “Soap suds up to their ears,” she said, “And it took another tubful of clear water to get them rinsed off.”

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I am becoming very proficient in killing flies. Some of them, I even bring down in mid-air with a vicious swat, which seems to me to be invaluable training in some branches of sports. If the fly season continues long enough, I should be tennis champion material. I have never played tennis, but I was in a volley ball game once. It was at a church camp in the Black Hills, and on the evening of the game in which I had been drafted to participate, I donned a brand new pair of gaudy yellow slacks, purchased especially for the outing. To my horror, they were several inches too big around at the waist and a bit longer then was strictly necessary. It was time to go and I didn’t even have a safety pin, so I trailed along with the gang, just as I was, too large slacks and all.

    All during the game, I clutched my slacks with one hand and batted futilely at the ball with the other, which, coupled with my woeful inexperience, did not make for a brilliant performance on my part. Of course, that was many years ago, and if I were asked to play volley ball today, everything would be different. Now I have a safety pin.

Mother’s Diary – September 21, 1944

 

   Roses were bobbing all up and down Main Street on Saturday. I tracked down the source and there I was in the new furniture store – a terribly fascinating place that made me terribly discontented with our own sad assortment of battered, second-hand stuff – including a poor little coffee table that falls apart at a harsh look. The window display looks more comfortable and homey than the average showroom and I saw other eyes than mine gazing wistfully at it. I spotted a cunning duck napkin holder that is going to make an ideal gift for a new baby of a friend of mine. Mrs. Folkerts has reason to be proud of her gift counter. They gave away 200 lovely red roses, running out in the middle of the afternoon. Mine is still lovely and I’m so glad I visited them in the morning.

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   I was right at home among the children’s books in Williams’ Book and Gift Store. There were some familiar ones that I itched to get my hands on. In fact, I did look at the Silhouette book and wished I had time for the others. Mrs. Williams delighted me by inviting me to come in and browse around anytime among the assortment, ranging from some fine religious works to children and adult fiction. I have found that book lovers are roaming about their counters. It takes time and solitude and quiet to select a book – or not to select a book as the case may be. I received my souvenir, a flower print and signed the register. I was later told that my signature was one of 403 and 166 children had signed the children’s register. I could hardly get my own children past the toys and pictures in the window display!

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   There is no conviction in the recommended cheerful “Now this is going to be good” manner with which I present leftovers to my family. The only leftover I really enjoy myself is a cold piece of apple pie from the refrigerator

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   Among the many things that my daughter heard from Grandma during her recent visit with her was that I loved to go to school when I was a little girl. Upon returning she asked, “Did you really wish there was school on Saturdays and Sundays?” and has regarded me with a certain amount of suspicion ever since.

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   She was likewise skeptical of her father’s defense when she criticized him for putting so much jelly on his bread. “Well, you see, it’s like this,” he explained solemnly. “I use enough jelly for two slices on only one slice and that saves on the bread.”

   √

   I wish Mr. Martin worked about the place every day. I can get much more work done in a shorter time when the boys are under his feet instead of mine.

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   Small boy asking for a moderate amount of nails- “I don’t want a little bit, and I don’t want a lot. I just want a little bit of a lot.”

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   It is truly educational to listen to a youngster telling a story. Only a child could plausibly get God, Santa Claus and Henny Penny all in the same tale.

Mother’s Diary – September 28, 1944

 

     At this very moment, I am happily reminiscing to the aroma from a spice bag. In my kitchen, peaches are bubbling in a rich syrup, cozily accompanied by a spice bag, and more rosy fruit is steaming in the colander awaiting its turn. Soon I shall have sparkling jars of peach pickles lined up on the table.

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      The recipe has a history. Last year when I started planning my very first canning program, pickled peaches were the one thing I was interested in. Beans, tomatoes and beets, I accepted as a matter of course, but pickled peaches would be my splurge – my exotic luxury. And they would have to be just like the first ones I ever ate. Those were in a cut glass bowl on a candle-lit dinner table in the home of one of my school friends. As I recall it, I must have made a terrific pig of myself, for after that, Verna’s mother always had pickled peaches when I came to dinner, and the bowl was always placed in front of me – practically labeled “Grace’s peaches.” They were delicious – firm, succulent and spicily sweet – uumm-good. So those were the peaches I had to have in my storage cupboard.

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      I wrote Mrs. Sumner and she immediately sent me the recipe and a lovely note, hoping the recipe would be all I had dreamed of. It was and is, but I never did write and tell her how successful they were. Some traveled as Christmas gifts to Texas and Washington. Some were sold at a bazaar and others went to a church luncheon. On my own table they were served to relatives and friends and WAVES from all parts of the United States. And they received special commendation from all.

     So this is really a “Thank you” to you, Mrs. Sumner. For the memories of visits in your home and the recipe that has brought me and mine so much pleasure.

  √

     When we finally decided last July to burn our bridges behind us, I trotted down to the (Waterloo) library to get information on Manson. Six churches – a theater – hotel – fine school with kindergarten – lake resort – everything was rosy. “But it doesn’t say library here,” I accused my librarian. She scurried around and searched all their records but there was still no library.

     I decided to remain in Waterloo.

  √

     After my husband was settled here, he wrote that there was a library but he had found out nothing more than that bare fact. I pictured a back room somewhere with a few Tom Swift books, and some musty law volumes maybe, but somewhat mollified, I began packing.

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     So I ferreted out the location and visited the Manson Library for the first time the other day. I don’t mind saying that I was delighted with the quality and quantity of the books and with the librarian as well. Miss Elliott made me welcome and at home immediately. I am always happy in a library though slightly frustrated because I can’t take all the books home at once, especially those on the intriguing rental shelf. However, I usually stagger away with as many as I can carry and then practically support the library single-handed with my rental fees and fines.

    Once I had to pay a 25-cent fine for a 10-cent magazine. It had become buried among my own magazines until I unearthed it one fine day during one of my spasmodic housecleaning moods. But that was my worst offense and hurt me worse that the library. When I related this tale of woe, Miss Elliott was unsympathetic. “Fine,” she said, “you can help support us, too. We can use the money.”

     But I don’t begrudge money spent on a book I have enjoyed and I’m looking forward to a lot of enjoyment from the books in our library. There is really a fine assortment there for the discriminating reader. And our capable, friendly librarian is a big asset too.

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    Note to other newcomers: The library is in a room of the City Hall, across the street from the high school. It is open Wednesday and Saturday afternoons – 3:30 to 5:30 and evenings from 7 to 8.

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     Among the books I carried away in my first raid on the library, was a murder mystery. I am an avid mystery fan, though my husband deplores my taste in literature and I have my own peculiar method of reading them – a method that would probably make their authors cringe. I read the first two or three chapters to become acquainted with the scene of the crime and the suspects, and then I turn to the last chapter for the solution. After that I start over and read straight through to the end having a perfectly beautiful time, because the murderer and I are the only ones who know who did it!!

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     We started out last Sunday afternoon on one of our hectic walks, and good Samaritans in the shape of Mr. and Mrs. Allen came along to save the day for “Mother.” It was wonderful to sit back and watch the scenery go by, serene in the knowledge that the youngsters were happily corralled with their noses pressed to the windows.

     Mr. Allen drove us to Twin Lakes, our first visit there. The lake was lovely in the late afternoon sun, bordered by the cottages, silent and lonely along the shore and haunted by the ghosts of all the past picnics and revelry. There was an occasional intent fisherman along the banks and the intermittent drone of a motorboat to break the peace and quiet.

     You can believe me, though, that all peace and quiet was shattered when we parked and the children spied the playground equipment. They made for the swings and as far as they were concerned, sightseeing was at an end. The youngest flatly refused to get into the baby swings but I was consoled by the thought that at any rate we would be spared that inevitable agonizing business of getting him out again.

     We grownups strolled down to the edge of the lake and viewed the famous Leighton cottage and stood in the shelter house chatting a bit with Matt Roche, the custodian. He surprised me by reporting an almost normal busy season at the lake as compared to last summer.

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     Just as we were ready to leave Steve came down, discovered “all the water,” and for while we thought we might have to stay there until the first snow before he was satisfied. It was a satisfying afternoon, but it made me ache to go on a picnic. When I mentioned it, my husband ached, too, though differently. But you just wait—there’ll be other nice Sundays before winter and I’ll manage one, somehow.

Mother’s Diary – October 5, 1944

            

    Our youngest is a miniature crime wave. He was the terror of the household before he was a year old and could have poor Steve trapped in a corner of the playpen howling for help. Nothing was safe from his marauding fingers – he pulled down curtains, upset ashtrays, pushed scatter rugs around, tore magazines, broke toys and a corner of the tablecloth hanging down from a table all set for dinner was definitely a challenge to him. When he invaded the kitchen on his own the pots and pans, oranges and onions simply flew. What he could reach was easy prey; what had been carefully put away from him just took a little longer to manage. He could climb before he could walk and I have found him on top of the piano, having himself a blissful time with the best photographs.

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    Since he has learned to walk, his misdeeds have multiplied themselves by ten and great is the trouble and destruction thereof! We literally do not dare leave him anywhere alone. If he is upstairs by himself more than two minutes we know that we will go up later and find everything detachable from every room thrown in the bathtub. One of his most deplorable habits is poking small articles away in every hole and crevice he can find. Once a peculiar odor in the house had me annoyed and puzzled for days, but I couldn’t find the source until on an impulse I opened the little door at the base of the hot water heater. There was a scorched, melted mass of what was once a bar of soap! Periodically we have a grand overhauling of davenport, chairs and registers, to unearth his loot – everything from spoons and playing cards to mittens and socks. However, many things never do turn up. One of a $1.47 pair of hose disappeared from the drying rack in the bathroom. I searched everywhere and even apprehensively tested the plumbing but all was apparently in order there. I never have found the stocking. Likewise with six knives out of a set of eight and the use of knives at the dinner table was reduced to a community affair until I was able to obtain more.

    I wish I could be around when the houses we have lived in are torn down so as to recover some of our property.

    He is a thrower too. My husband thinks it is good sign that he will be a famous baseball player someday, but I maintain that it is not safe to live around anyone who would just as soon hurtle a hammer through the air, as pound a nail with it. And it’s expensive, too. Five windows broken is the toll so far this fall – the latest one in the basement of the church while I was attending my first meeting of the Woman’s Association. I frankly admit that I was embarrassed but all the ladies came nobly to my rescue with comforting reassurances. It is positively amazing how one child’s delinquency can call forth tales of past misdeeds of offsprings in other families. It is easy to forget that one’s own child doesn’t have a monopoly on mischievousness. And it is consoling to learn from other mothers that their successful sons and daughters once broke windows and talked out loud in church.

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    I was in the Stoltzfus home the other day when the six o’clock whistle blew. The baby not quite two years old, scrambled to his feet and rushed to the door, shouting, “Daddy coming now.” Mercy – my children aren’t that smart.

They do pretty well with hammers and nails though. My husband, recalling a favorite pastime of his boyhood, routed out a couple of short logs and a hammer apiece for the boys. They spend many absorbing hours – and I mean hours – pounding nails into the up-ended logs. Two bruised thumbs and a lump on Steve’s head are the only casualties so far.

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    I have never seen as many young looking women anywhere as I’ve seen in Manson. I just get some woman labeled in my mind as a young matron and am told that she has a son or daughter in the service. As my daughter frequently says, “I can’t get over it.”

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    They let me wear an ink stained apron in the print shop now, so I guess I’m accepted as an official helper. I prowl around, ask questions, make uncalled for comments, get in every ones way and sniff the newspaper atmosphere. And on Thursdays in spite of the bosses pointed remarks about the “speed demon” at the mailer – I love it!!

Mother’s Diary – October 12, 1944

 

     Our daughter visits her father in his office every afternoon in the interests of demand and supply, varying her requests occasionally, as she has discovered that it isn’t good policy to ask for a nickel every day.

     She entered the office as usual last Friday while S/Sergeant Harlyn Nelson, home on furlough from England, and his father, A. E. Nelson, were visiting. She interrupted their conversation long enough to find out that she shouldn’t wait to go home with Daddy.

     Then, “Any mail?”

     “No.”

     A happy thought, “Any gum?”

     “No.”

     “Just a minute,” interposed Mr. Nelson, “I think I have some,” and he as he produced a stick for the blissful girl, S/Sergeant Nelson grinned.

     “That reminds me of England,” he said, “There all the English children say to the Yanks they meet, “Any gum, chum?”

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      This, in a small way, gives us a tantalizing glimpse into the future when our boys are home again from all parts of the world. They will be reminded constantly of little incidents and stories, and in time, we will all have definite whole pictures of lives that are foreign to us.

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     It seems that Mr. Woodworth, in a loyal and patriotic mood promised the members and substitutes of the football team, a malted milk each if they won the game last week.

     So when he came into the drug store late Friday afternoon to announce the victory and “Better start making malted milks,” it threw our “coke” girls, Betty and Colleen, into a complete dither. Their rejoicing was tinged with apprehension and despair as they darted aimlessly about, casting anxious glances at the clock and jumping nervously every time a car honked or the front door banged.

     “Thirty three malted milks!” they gloomed. “Won’t it be awful if they all come in at once?”

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     We had a wiener roast in our back yard the other night. It was a bit chilly and we had to stand up to eat. The fire burned erratically and some of the wieners were burned. I got razzed for bringing out napkins, and the coffee had to be rushed back to the kitchen for reheating. The youngest was less interested in eating than he was in hurling small sticks and pebbles into the fire. It was dark by the time we got all the paraphernalia herded back into the house, but aside from all this, we all had great fun – even my husband, who as a rule, thinks it is absolute folly to forsake the dining room table for the great outdoors at mealtime.

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     I have always had a quarrel with advocates of “The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year.” To my way of thinking, autumn is the exact reverse of melancholy. The skies and sunsets (I seldom see sunrises, so I won’t even mention them) are never so bright as now, and the flowers and trees are at their grandest in the fall of the year. Even on rainy days, there is something crisp and energetic and decisive in the air. Autumn is a revival of business, and meetings and clubs; a period of quickening interest in new and different clothes, hair-dos and make-up.

    Give me autumn, with a flaming maple tree against the setting run, and the scent of burning leaves drifting down the wind.

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     Soldiers and their obstacle courses have nothing on me. It is mere routine for me to hurdle a string of chairs to get across the room, or to climb over boxes and baby beds and toys to get from one room to the other or to reach the stairway.

    Do you have a little cherub in your home who likes to play train?

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     Whenever my inferiority complex is working overtime, I bolster my ego by casually mentioning my Spode. “It’s the buttercup pattern.” I say offhand as if Spode was a commonplace thing in my life, and listeners never fail to look impressed.

     How are they to know that my Spode consists of but one gravy boat, and cracked at that!

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     Saying ‘Thursday’ for ‘thirsty’ is not peculiar to my own children I know. But one day Steve came tearing in the house, “I’m ‘thursday’ – I’m ‘thursday’.” Then after a couple gulps from the full water glass, he eyed me thoughtfully. “If I drink all this water, would I be Sunday?”

Mother’s Diary – October 19, 1944

 

     Regardless of the ironing, the children, the meals, and my regular stint at the office last week, I took to my bed with a hot water bottle and spent the whole day there. This was made possible in part by the aid of our very good neighbor, Mrs. Tom Tiernan, who came to entertain the boys for the afternoon. She provided them with cookies and apples and stories, and was in turn regaled by Steve’s accounts of our family’s history, past and current. (I have since informed my husband that we must, in the future, by very careful of what Steve sees and hears about our household!) Toward evening I had a tray of tea and toast beside my bed, which procedure reduced the children to fascinated awe.

     The next morning, Steve pronounced himself too ill to arise and after a decent interval of calculated moaning, insisted on breakfast in bed; a breakfast, by his own personal order, consisting of a large dish of farina, orange juice, milk and bread and jelly. After this “invalid” repast had been consumed, he explained that he “felt gooder now,” nimbly got out of bed, and proceeded with his usual activities of the day.

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     In a recent letter from my mother, she wrote, “I just got two apple pies ready for the oven, one to take to the dinner for the lodge, and the other one is for the heathen.” That remark took me straight back to afternoons after school as we rushed to the kitchen for snacks. We would often find a cake, or a pie, or rolls, etc., waiting on the table, but we usually didn’t get excited until we determined what it was for. Too often it was for the church, or the lodge or a bake sale, which meant hands off and frustrated hopes. One afternoon, we challenged Mother concerning a particularly delectable treat, and she told us with a twinkle that it wasn’t for the church this time, but “for the heathen,” meaning us, of course. So after that, it was a family joke in our house, and we were always glad when she baked for the “heathen.”

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     I dream of entertaining at gracious dinners with gleaming silver, tall candles, perfect service, and muted, correct conversation like stories I read. But so far, dreaming is all that I’ve done about it. Our entertaining is always a particularly mad, hectic affair, to the tune of three children, very much seen and heard, last minute rushing, things forgotten and usually climaxed by some dreadful mishap that provides laughter for days afterward. If I’m not ironing napkins, cleaning silver, or putting up clean curtains at the last minute, I’ve probably forgotten to do it at all, and I don’t know which is worse. Very often, the guests have to help get the food ready, if they expect to eat, and as we practically always serve buffet style, they have to help themselves too, when it’s finally ready. I am not very efficient at anything, and entertaining is no exception. But the worst part of it is the terrible things that happen.

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     Once we had a make-your-own sandwiches buffet. After the guests had gathered their own makings and seated themselves, I came upon my husband standing plate in hand, before the table, looking a bit puzzled.

     “You say we’re supposed to make our own sandwiches?”

     I was impatient, “Of course, you know that! Don’t be silly!”

     “Well, – where’s the bread?”

     So I had to fly with a platter of bread to the polite but helpless guests in the living room. “Would you like some bread to go with your sandwiches?”          

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     Another time, we had some WAVES, very attractive girls, whom we had never seen before, and as I had been particularly foresighted, everything was going beautifully, and everyone, even the children, were being very correct, refined and elegant. The girls were seated at a card table with their filled plates and cups before them. I sat down and my sister was approaching as one side of the card table buckled under, and we sat frozen, while plates, cups and silver slid to the floor and lay in a broken mass with bakes beans, sliced mat, celery, cranberries, soaked bread and pools of coffee.

    “Well,” I said, “Thank goodness, the sugar bowl is right side up. It was the last cup of sugar from my last sugar stamp.” And then all formality was at an end, as we scurried to scoop up the remains. The WAVES invaded the back porch (that I hadn’t bothered to clean up because I couldn’t imagine why WAVES would find any occasion to visit the back porch) to get the dust pan, brooms and mops, and we all reset the table, and went after more food. The evening was a huge success.

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     One evening we had the teachers for supper and Steve went to the bathroom, and pranced back into the room with all his clothes over his arm, to be dressed again.

     And then there was the time that – but I could go on and on. There are always misadventures for hostesses to agonize over. The only difference is that other hostesses can at least suffer in secret or behind closed doors of the kitchen. When things happen in our household, everyone get involved.

     But I love to entertain!

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     The latest quirk of Bruce, the youngest, is neatly rolling up all the scatter rugs and tucking them in a bed. No matter how often I put them back where they belong, they always seem to be rolled up on the bed.