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She looked at me unknowing. "On your radio you've heard him as Charlie McCarthy."
"Was that Charlie McCarthy? Why, he doesn't look a bit like he sounds."
"The other man was Ken Murray— a famous comedian."
"He looked sad for a funny man," said my mother.
She stayed with me for months. One of her favorite people was Laura Hope Crewrs, who invited us for a week end at her Santa Monica home.
In the middle of the night I thought I heard a sound in the dressing room which connected our rooms and got up to look. There was my mother looking out over the ocean.
"Whatever are you doing this for?" I asked.
"I just love to look at the Pacific— it's so big."
We drove along the beach and she was fascinated by the campfires of picnickers and thought how fortunate the young people of California were to have a playground so near their homes. Why, at home you travel miles to go fishing in a river!
On the night of her birthday we gathered together those she'd learned to love: Laura Hope Crews, Janet Gaynor and Adrian, Newell Van Derhoef, John Roach, Frances Marion, Jessie Christian, and Dema Harshbarger. Mother was covered with orchids from her shoulder to her wraist. Adrian had given her a box of tuberous begonias, which she kept beside her the whole evening.
While greeting the guests, Mother overheard me tell them we were celebrating her eighty-fourth birthday. I thought it was. But she turned to Dema and whispered, "You know, I'm really eightyfive. But if it helps Elda any to say that I'm eighty-four, I don't mind."
Two of the guests thought, as I had, to send her singing telegrams. To this day I've never received one on my own birthday. When the first one arrived, the messenger boy came into the dining room and I explained what it meant. She was so pleased. When the second one arrived, Mother sang with him. When the third messenger came in, she started to sing before he could begin. He let her carry through to the end, then said. "Lady, I thank you. I can't sing as nice
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