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MOTHER'S PROBLEMS WERE BUNDLED UP IN ONE SMALL PACKAGE— ME. MATTER OF FACT, THEY STILL ARE!
■ One Sunday afternoon when I was four, there was a terrible crash upstairs in her room, where Mother assumed I was taking a nap.
She rushed to the foot of the stairs and called. "What happened, Anne?"
I opened the bedroom door and came into view. '"Nothing."' I said.
Through the open door behind me wafted a traitorous aroma of perfume, which promptly descended to the stairs where Mother was standing. She beckoned to me, and I reluctantly obeyed.
""Anne," she asked gently, "are you sure you didn't break something?"
I shook my head by way of denial.
"But I know a perfume bottle was broken,"' said Mother, "and you must know how it happened."
"Well-1-1," I conceded., "maybe a little bottle did fall over on the table. . . ."
Mother closed her eyes for a while and then opened them and smiled at me. "We have a long way to go. Anne, haven't we?" she asked. "A long, long way!"
Even then I knew what she meant. There was not only my utter disinterest in speaking the truth or my ability to get my clothes so dirty in one wearing that the dirt had to be sort of bulldozed off before they could be washed: there was my temper, my wild impulsiveness, my disorderly way of thinking and. finally, my genius for breaking things around the house. I was aghast at the difficulties ahead. Would we ever make it?
Well, as Mother knows, we haven't . . . quite. There is still work to be done. But thanks to her wise and gentle
ways, "we" have made progress, and I hereby acknowledge her guidance. Most of what a child should know about life, including a lot that some parents still can't bring themselves to tell, was explained to me carefully and even beautifully by her. Later, when I heard this same story from other sources, usually whispered and unhealthily slanted. I was doubly grateful to her.
There is a certain type of person for whom things always seem to go wrong. That was the first great talent I exhibited as a tot and much of this genius still remains with me. I can remember when I was four trying to make a good impression on a little boy cousin of mine who was brought to visit us. ' I can't recall the details of my campaign, but at the end. while our parents were upstairs in the apartment talking, we were downstairs beating each other over the head with soup ladles. The more I realized I had failed to make him like me, the harder I beat him.
In the "careful planning" department I haven"t improved much. There was a Sunday morning not long ago when a writer was due to come for both ""brunch" and an interview. I wanted to make a good impression, and I thought it would be cheery if I whipped up some scrambled eggs in a chafing dish right on the living room coffee table. I could just see myself as he was going to see me — a happy little homemaker, adept at everything she does. I even thought of some cute little side remarks I might make as the eggs coddled themselves into appetizing firmness and I gracefully served them to my guests.
Came the day and I found I was all set except for alcohol to bum under the dish. There wasn't time to run out and get some. I started a frantic (Continued on page 100)