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Show 1; My s 4 i- By KATHRYN FORBES 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 Grandma'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. Mother's yDayL Author of "Mama's Bank Account," upon which the hit play and movie, "I Remember Mama," was based year was 1944, and the Sunday that going to turn out to be my most memorable Mother's Day started of! all wrong for me. It was the third year of the war, and we lived onthe 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 mjr Norwegian family had become, almost overnight, a best seller. Suddenly, I was so busy playing author, publisher, and authorrguest 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 The ' f . that worry mothers. Just that' spring, he'd allowed Bobby to' buy a car with money he had made 'as an errand-bo- y. Did I say car? It was a jalopy a Model A open roadster that rattled and clattered, wheezed and clumped. Along with a raucous horn, it had a brazen that could be pulled at appropriate intervals. So, evert 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-ta- lk would take top priority at Jthe breakfast table. Only by withholding the pancakes until I got full attention was I ' allowed to speak. : . And all I got for my well-lai- d were three shocked, bldnk 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 ol no 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 finished with, "Well have to celebrate next wolf-whis- tle "Ah-OOH-ga- h" getting from her place to mine- - entailed taking a series of buses, trains, and streetcars, each with its own capricious schedule. Atbes&e tfiptck-riours- . Time. I woke up .that Sunday morning to the sad. fact that there hadn't even been enough of it to plait a proper Mother's Day te celebration for her. prepara tions had been the best I could manage. This was because, weeks before, I'd promised to speak at the annual Mother's Day luncheon honoring residents of the ' homes in San Francisco. Consulting no one, I dreamed up a complicated 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 together. (The boys would undoubtedly have some simple Mother's Day gift for me Yd 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, f Outline-of-Our-D- A Last-minu- beat-u- p two jalopy, boys, teen-ag- e - and a conspiratorial old-peopl- e's grandmother are part of this heart-warmin- g ....,- - y of a special Sunday long ago Leo Aarons' camera captures the joys of motherhood specially for this, her day. The whole family will enjoy sharing "My Finest Mother's .Day Gift" (see above).' - -- " ;. : ;- -v LEONARD S. DAVI00W week, Mama." She remained cheerful. "I'll still be your mother next Sunday," she reminded me. "It WALTEt C DREYFUS PATRICK E. OHOURKE iioi Yft,,,w--;--- President and Publisher Vice President Advertising Director (Continued) 1W0, FAMILYVEEKLY MAGAZINE,' - Board of Editors I ERNEST V. HEYN F.ditnrUKUt BEN KARTMAN Executive Editor ROBERT FITZGIBBON Managing Editor MARGARET BELL Feature Editor fHILLIP DYKSTRA Art Director MELANIE DE PROFT Food Editor r Send all advertising communications to Family Weekly, 153 N. Michigan Are., Chicago 1, III. Address all communications about editorial features to Family Weekly, 60 E. 56th St., New York 22, N. Y. ay car-po- . COVER: n ana; TMOTJGH'lTVED-mjr-sons-aearlmost of the time, never never did I understand them; Fortunately, their father did. My husband saw to it that our sons got all the possessions y, 30 miles because of the awkward-to-trav- el between us. Since neither Mama nor I drove, - . . : Heldman, John Hochmann, Jerry Klein, ' Harold London, Jock Ryan; Peer Oppenheimer, Hollywood. INC., 153 N. Michigan Ave , Chicago 1, III. All reserved. Bob Driscoll, Irma rights |