MEDINA I fcU
dermassage
FAST RELIEF
from uncomfortable, dry,
irritated skin
FAST RELIEF
from sore, aching,
strained muscles with a
Dermassage massage
m 1
l r
1U
FAST RELIEF
from hot, tired,
aching feet
FAST RELIEF
from pain of sunburn
with menthol-cool
lubrication
USED IN OVER
4,000 HOSPITALS
Get-Acquainted Offer
Limited Time Only
Reg. $1.59 'fngrH,
Economy Size - A p
si29
II no ltd. tat V. A
with FREE I OUW
DISPENSER I OFF ,
OtfaUl PiimoIII.U
MmnM if not
Mir uhshnl
npirn May 31. I960
AT LEADING DtlG COUNTERS
My
Finest
Mother's Day
Gift
( Continued)
will be just as good to see you then."
But it really wouldn't be, I thought
despondently.
"Happy Mother's Day," I said to my
husband as he passed me in the hall
' on his way to work. My voice was
bitter.
"The boys didn't get you a present?"
"No."
He started to put his hand in his
pocket.
"Don't," I said bleakly. "I don't want
you to remind them or to give them
money. Let it go."
At 11 o'clock, in my Sunday best,
I went out our front door to catch
the bus to San Francisco. Bobby and
Dick had just finished grooming "The
Heap."
"I could drive you into San Fran
cisco," the older boy offered generously.
I had a nightmare vision of myself
furred, fancy-hatted, and white-gloved
being propelled up Nob Hill in the
monstrosity and jarring to a clattering
stop in front of the elegant hotel.
"Oh, no, you couldn't!" I said crossly,
"because I wouldn't go to a dog fight
in that that trap-rattle!"
"Rattletrap," Dick corrected ab
sently, while Bobby looked wounded.
"At any rate," I begged, "please drive
carefully."
Neither of them called out a happy
Mother's Day after me, but it seemed
to me forgetfulness was only what I
justly deserved.
But I gave my speech as best I could.
And my heart wasn't in it It was
across the Bay, with the mother who
had made all this possible.
As I trudged back up our hill that
evening, I was relieved to see "The
Heap" back in place on our lawn.
I opened the front door, and there
to greet me was my mother!
"Mama!" I hugged her joyously.
My mother was a tall, stately wom
an who always carried herself with
great dignity. I noticed that she looked
just a bit rumpled.
"Mama!" I said again, "what are
you doing here?"
"It seems," my mother said placidly,
"that I am your Mother's Day present.
The boys came over and got me."
I pointed to the lawn. "In that? You
rode down here in . . . ?"
"Bobby's car," my mother nodded.
"Grandma sat between us," Bobby
began.
"Like a queen," Dickie supplied.
"And bowed to every car that passed
us!" Bobby added.
"Chee," Dickie chimed in the final
accolade, "is Grandma ever a good
sport!"
"They let me pull the wolf-whistle,"
my conventional mother said, "all the
way across the bridge!"
Tearfully, I looked at my sons, stand
ing there beaming at my delight. I
longed to reach out to those big, awk
ward, grinning boys, put my arms
around them, and give them each a
resounding kiss.
I caught myself in time, remember
ing the teen-ager's sturdy and touchy
dignity. Instead, and true to the code,
I thrust out my hand to be shaken.
'Thanks. Oh, thanks."
And they laughed out loud, while
they grabbed me. And they kissed me.
"Happy Mother's Day," they yelled
in my ear. "Happy Mother's Day!"
And it was. The happiest.
in W
Through the years, her shadow has
fallen often across these columns.
I have recounted our chats about
The Store. I have exposed her as a
simultaneous painter of canvas and
herself, as a secret drummer and a
candidate for king on a platform of
no more motorcycles.
Sometimes I have received letters
from readers who feel they know her
or wonder if she isn't just a little
peculiar.
All this enchants her, because she
is less peculiar than honest and thor
oughly unpredictable. It is she who
laughs hardest at her own escapades.
You may have seen her in a grocery
store, wearing an apron over her house
dress and a petticoat that shows, or
at White Sulphur Springs or at the
Waldorf in an Oleg Cassini gown.
That is, if you're lucky.
It was a long time ago, but I have
never been able to write seriously
about her because I have read too many
saccharine sonnets and also because a
blinding devotion makes it impossible
to see her clearly.
And how is it possible to write sen
timentally of a woman whose hair
won't turn properly silver and who
talks to birds as though they were
people? How do you communicate what
it is which makes her neither pretty
nor striking but strangely beautiful?
She's no Grandma Moses with a
paintbrush. She's no Eleanor Roosevelt
on the podium. She toils some, sews a
poor seam, and does a thousand kind
nesses for others which both they and
aha have long forgotten.
Sh always smells good. There's that.
And she has dimples because she smiles
so much. She is never offended, only
hurt, quietly by herself so that no one
will be bothered by it.
She was born to give. Herself and
the blessing of her humble, gentle
spirit which forever underestimates its
powerful goodness.
This is all I can write about this
improbable, malapropable, wholly won
derful woman because the tears will
come to my eyes and then, without
even knowing what moves me, to hers
also. For she bears all my- burdens for
me and therefore lightens my heart.
From her life to mine have come
faith, hope, and love.
And the greatest of these is Bernie.
My mother.
Family Weekly. May I, I960