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Show Kathleen Norris Says: The. I'rohlcm, of Mama Mnll M.vtullcuitn. WNIJ I'Vnt lirra. fe Evelyn did what I adiised her to do, and llint uu marry at once, and let Mama adjust herself to what is a perfectly natural arid normal step on the part of any daughter. CHILDREN DON'T OWE PARENTS A LIVING Children more than pay their parents in babyhood for any expense incurred in raising them, according to Kathleen Norris. It is not fair for a mother to stand in her daughter's way when a desir- ' I able marriage is in the offing. I Young people are entitled to ; a life of their own unfettered j by the prejudices and notions i of their in-laws. How a young i school teacher facedj just such a problem and solved it with the help of Miss Norris is related re-lated this week. By KATHLEEN NORRIS EVELYN MILLER wants to marry her soldier. She wants to go down to New Mexico and find some sort of a small home, and start her own life as a happy wife. But there's Mama, standing like a grumbling, sick, dangerous dan-gerous old lioness right in Evelyn's path. "Both my brothers married mar-ried young," writes Evelyn, who is now 29. "I was 19 when Papa died, and had just got my first teaching position. posi-tion. Now I am principal of an elementary school, and have always liked my work. My hours are such that I can take Mama her breakfast in bed, and get home early enough to get our dinner. It has meant steady work, but she has always helped me with my papers and bookkeeping, and we have had ten wonderful years together. I dearly love my mother, I appreciate all she has done for me, and I know I am the very apple of her eyes. She does not care for my brothers' wives and rarely sees her three grandchildren. Sometimes I go over and see them on Sunday evening; there is no ill-feeling ill-feeling between them and Mama, and the boys do come in and see her now and then, but we are not intimate with their wives. Mother Loves Few but Deeply. "Mama says she loves few persons, per-sons, but loves those few too much, and I believe it is true. It means that she depends for her happiness almost entirely upon me. Old friends do drop in to see her, but she and her own sister are not particularly attached, and while Aunt Emily would gladly come here to live it I were gone, the mere prospect of it "Married this morning, Mama fine, love from Alan and Evelyn." So Evelyn did what I advised her to do, and that was marry at once, and let Mama adjust herself to what is a perfectly natural and normal step on the part of any daughter. If some of these daughters who sacrifice sac-rifice their entire lives to selfish Mamas could look back a generation j and see exactly how much consid-I consid-I eration Mama gave, in her turn, to the demands, needs and opinions of ' her own parents, they might receive j a startling eye-opener. Mama was probably selfish as a girl and as a wife, or she couldn't be quite so blind now to all interests but her own. Mama hes alienated sons, daughters-in-law, grandchildren and her own sister, through her narrow, j pig-headed selfishness; she has ab-I ab-I sorbed Evelyn's life, and undoubted-i undoubted-i ly she would go on contentedly, mak-I mak-I ing more and more narrow the circle that shuts in Evelyn, draining' j away Evelyn's youth and hope and eagerness for life as mercilessly as the hideous old duchess of the middle ages who bathed in the blood of murdered village girls. We sea too many of these selfish old women, being escorted tenderly about by starved maiden ladies of daughters; patient daughters who place shawls, laugh at old, old jokes, study bills-of-fare concernedly, explain ex-plain to the waiter how Mama likes her chop or her baked apple. One wonders what is going on in the old lady's head as she cackles her feeble fee-ble stories and explains that while she had just piles and piles of beaus in the old days, Evelyn has always been Mama's girl. breaks Mama's heart. "Well, this is where Alan comes in, my splendid wonderful lover. He is already a captain, though a year younger than I. Before the war he was a college instructor, just the work with which I could perhaps help him, and the atmosphere I would love. Ours has been a whirlwind whirl-wind courtship, I met him exactly seven weeks ago, but it does seem late, to us both. Alan is truly the man of my dreams, and I had a very definite dream of the man I wanted, and he says that all his life long he has been waiting for me. '.'Mama can't and won't believe that I know him well enough to care for him, and to be willing to share my life with him. She has been actually ill since the affair began, and has spoken to Alan only twice. The first time she was very cold and stiff; the second time, yesterday, she wept, clung to his hands, and begged him not to take me away from her. She said I am all she has. "Alan says she'll get over it, and come to live with us when the war is over. But I am afraid it may kill her. There is nothing really wrong with her, physically, but she lis very fraiL has headaches, and is easily tired. Alan is willing to have her join us in New Mexico, but she lis afraid of wartime conditions so near a big camp. It seems a deadlock. dead-lock. Mama has a small income, Ibut she could not pay for a nurse tar a maid under present conditions, jit would actually shatter her to have me marry, but do you think she would recover, do you think it would be safe to risk it? I am determined to do what you advise, but do please remember that utter happiness or utter misery for me is at stake, and give me some hope of being Alan's wife, even a year from now, even after the war, if you possibly can. He will wait." Married and No Regrets. This letter came to me two weeks ago, from Philadelphia. I answered It within the hour, by air-mail. Today To-day I have a tcicrrrnt on my desk: - Grandmother Given Separate Home. A San Francisco matron some ten years ago transplanted her mother abruptly to a two-room apartment in a pleasant sunny house with a garden, gar-den, a few blocks away from her own home. She did it suddenly, between be-tween breakfast and lunch. Her husband hus-band and children came home unexpectedly un-expectedly to a house in which Grandma was no longer supreme, criticizing, delaying, complaining, driving the Chinese cook crazy, appropriating ap-propriating the bathroom to herself at the very hours when the man of the house and the children were getting get-ting ready for work and school, or just home from work and school. "I telephoned my sister and my brother," announced the wife and mother. "They'll both pay $25 a month. Ma's rent is $15 we'll manage man-age toe rest. For four years I've been wondering what to do, and now I've done it. I've been afraid to open the subject, but this time I didn't argue. I asked Helen to take Ma for a long ride, and while she was gone I took her things over to the Byron street house. Helen brought her there; everything was in order, gas plate, groceries, teapot, tea-pot, telephone. I said, 'Here's where you're going to be, Ma,' and kissed her, and we came away." This particular mother wouldn't speak to any child of hers for weeks. But she accepted their money, and after awhile she accepted the situation, situa-tion, and now all is serenity and peace. |