4
V:
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By KATHRYN FORBES
Author of "Mimi1! Bank Account,"
upon which the hit play and movie,
"I Remomber Mama," was based
The year was 1944, and the Sunday that
was going to turn out to be my most
memorable Mother's Day started off all
wrong for me.
It was the third year of the war, and
we lived on the peninsula, 15 miles south
of San Francisco. My husband worked in
the Richmond shipyards, and our sons,
Bobby, 16, and Dickie, 14, were then in
high school.
A quiet book that I had written about my
Norwegian family had become, almost over
night, a best seller.
Suddenly, I was so busy playing author,
publisher, and author-guest speaker, that
there was hardly enough time left for my
basic roles as wife and mother. Or time,
even, to be a daughter.
My mother, almost 70 years old, lived
alone in Oakland, across the Bay. With proud
independence, she had resisted our efforts to
move her closer to us. Although we talked
by telephone every day, we did not see her
as often as we would have liked; mainly
because of the awkward-to-travel 30 miles
between us. Since neither Mama nor I drove,
getting from her place to mine entailed
taking a series of buses, trains, and street
cars, each with its own capricious schedule.
At best, the trip took hours.
Time. I woke up that Sunday morning to
the sad fact that there hadn't even been
enough of it to plan a proper Mother's Day
celebration for her. Last-minute prepara
tions had been the best I could manage.
This was because, weeks before,' I'd prom
ised to speak at the annual Mother's Day
luncheon honoring residents of the old
people's homes in San Francisco.
Consulting no one, I dreamed up a com
plicated schedule for my family that would
allow us to visit Mother despite the loss of
time my luncheon entailed.
First, we'd have a leisurely breakfast to
gether. (The boys would undoubtedly have
some simple Mother's Day gift for me I'd
accept it graciously.) After everyone was
comfortably fed, I'd announce the program.
Since Dad would be driving me to San
Francisco for my speaking date, I'd begin,
My
Finest
Mothers Day
Gift
A beat-up jalopy,
two teen-age boys,
and a conspiratorial
grandmother are part of this
heart-warming memory
of a special Sunday long ago
wouldn't it be practical for the boys to come
along then, even if it was early?
No, I'd reassure them hastily, they wouldn't
have to stay to hear me speak. They could
surely find something to do in the city while
I was busy.
At 3 o'clock, I'd say, .they could pick me
up, and Dad would drive us over to Grand
ma's. We'd take her out to dinner and make
it a truly happy Mother's Day.
Alas. I had yet to learn that I could not
write life as easily as I wrote my stories.
Though I loved my sons dearly, and en
joyed them hugely most of the time,
never, never did I understand them. For
tunately, their father did. My husband saw
to it that our sons got all the possessions
that worry mothers. Just that spring, he'd
allowed Bobby to buy a car with money he
had made as an errand-boy.
Did I say car? It was a jalopy a Model A
open roadster that rattled and clattered,
wheezed and clumped. Along with a raucous
"Ah-OOH-gah" horn, it had a brazen wolf
whistle that could be pulled- at appropriate
intervals. So, even though earnestly assured
that it was safely braked, and that Bobby
was an excellent driver, I still refused
it my sanction.
Of course, the boys were devoted to it.
They called it "The Heap." I guess I should
have known that, like any Sunday morning,
car-talk would take top priority at the
breakfast table. Only by withholding the
pancakes until I got full attention was I
allowed to speak.
And all I got for my well-laid Outline-of-Our-Day
were three shocked, blank looks.
"But it's the jalopy meet in Belmont!" the
boys protested in unison. "And The Heap'
is entered!"
"This is the Sunday I have to work," their
father said. "I told you last week. There's
no car-pool on Sundays. I'll have to take
our car. We'll just have to put off the visit
to your mother till next week."
"Oh, no!" I wailed. "I was counting on . . ."
"I did tell you," my husband insisted, "sev
eral times." ,
"I forgot," I had to confess.
Morosely, I went to telephone my mother;
I explained, as calmly as I could, and fin
ished with, "Well have to celebrate next
week, Mama."
She remained cheerful. "I'll still be your
mother next Sunday," she reminded me. "It
(Continued)
COVER:
Leo Aarons' camera captures the joys of
motherhood specially for this, her day.
The whole family mill enjoy sharing "My
Fittest Mother's Dag Gift" (see above).
IEONARD I. DAVIOOW President and PsMisAer
WAITER C. DREYFUS Vice President
f ATRICK I. CROURKI 4dvertisina Director
Ssnd oil odvsrtltlmj communication! to
Famllr Wsskly, 151 N. Michigan Ay., Chicago I, III.
AcMrsis all communication! about editorial fcaturss to
Familr Wm, OR E. SMi St., N.w York 22, N. V,
1N0, FAMILY MMO.Y MMAHi,' INC.,
May 1,1960
Board of Editors
ERNEST V. HEVN Edltor-in-CMel
EN KARTMAN Erecntiss Editor
ROftERT HTZOtMON Managing Editor
MARGARET tEU Fosters Editor
PHHUP DYKSTRA Art Director
MElANIt M PROfT Food Editor
Rob DrittoH, Isma Msldmon, John Hoshmann. Jsrry Wain,
Harold London, jade faan; fosr Oppsnhstmor, stalls-wood.
Id N. Mdilgoa An., Chisago I. III. All rights nssrssd.