In November, 1941, her mother went to bed and wasn't allowed to move. It was hard on the six-year-old, going into mother's bedroom and not sitting on the bed. She got used to it, though, and would take her toys and books into the bedroom after school and sit quietly and play. There were whispers about how H. was doing, and Auntie S. was there a lot, fussing about the bed. The child had no idea what was going on; just one of those strange occurances that grew up around adults. But one thing the child did notice was that mother, although made to lie on her back all day and all night, could still sew. The child watched in fascination as her mother made tiny garments by hand. She would look up under her lashes so mother wouldn't see her watching. There were so many secrets in that household, the child was sure these little clothes were part of the mystery. One day, near Christmas, the mystery seemed to be solved; mother was trying those wee dresses and nightgowns on two little dolls who were twins. Oh! The child held her breath. They were beautiful! The little girl said nothing, but she knew in her heart that those dolls would be under the Christmas tree for her that year. And she could hardly wait. She dreamed about them and planned how she would play with them. She never asked about them, however. She just went on playing quietly in the bedroom. As Christmas came closer, there seemed to be more concern about mother. The doctor dropped in often; a nurse came every two days to check on her. There was worry on her father's face and Auntie's face and in their voices. Christmas Day finally arrived, and the child ran to the tree. Where was the box with the dolls? She looked and looked, still not saying anything. When it was obvious that they were not under that tree, the little thought that had niggled in her brain for these long weeks took shape: mother was so sick because the child was naughty, and that's why there were no twin dolls under that tree. A week later, there was a great commotion in the house. Auntie came downstairs to stay with the child while father took mother away. Hours later, Auntie announced that there was a new baby in the family, a brother, and that mother and baby would be home in several days. I wish I could say that the child was happy about this, but she wasn't. This seemed to be even more punishment for something she had done. She was so bad that they had had to get a new child. Years passed, and one day, long after her mother had died, when the little girl had children of her own, she mentioned those dolls to her Aunt S. "Oh, your mother made those dolls for the Salvation Army; didn't we ever tell you?" The year mother was in bed, to prevent an even more premature birth than actually took place, Pearl Harbor happened. The worry over mother had been coupled with the worry about the war. No one had time to think about what might be going through a little girl's mind. Postscript. That brother grew up to be a pesky nuisance to his older sister. He perpetrated all sorts of mischief against her. One day, when they were both grandparents, the brother said, "It's a wonder you didn't grow up hating me!" The sister answered, "What makes you think I didn't?" (just kidding, Tigger, I learned to love you when you were about 17 "grin")
It's freezing here in the computer/sewing/ironing/gloryhole/extra bed room. The wind is blowing fierce gusts just outside the windows. It's supposed to snow tonight; it was in the 40's this morning. Sunday it's supposed to be in the 50's. Wacky weather.
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