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Page 43 text:
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THE BLUE MOON 39 Great-uncle Howard walks into a room, and with a quick glance takes in everyone. If someone fails at the first instant to make introductions, he loudly calls for someone to please introduce him. With a slow movement, so unlike his brisk walk, he eases himself into the most comfortable chair. Placing his feet together and sitting bolt upright against the back, he stiffly beats a continual noiseless tattoo with his unusually long and pointed fingers upon the arms of the chair. Toward the end of a long evening, his busy fingers stop, his feet fall apart, and he drops off into slumber. For he is an old man. CHRISTINE NYE HAVILIAND, 1932 ON ATTEMPTING TO RETIRE EARLY AT WHAT time should we retire? The decision is one which every indi- vidual must make, and which is often disregarded with an excuse of doubtful importance. To the little tot, scrambling over the side of his painted crib into a sea of white sheets, six o'clock means the unavoidable end of the day, and seldom is he afforded the treat of a few extra minutes. An hour later, an older child lays his weary head upon the pillow, and waits for the sand-man to transport him to the land of dream fairies. So each new year ushers in a new bed-time until We take our place As men and women in the race and sleepy-time comes to us according to our ways of life. I can still recall my six o'clock age and the pink and white nursery where I passed my hours of repose. The leaping black and white puppies pictured on the round rugs, the chubby dimpled dolls in their tiny white beds with a pile of white organdie laid out for morning at their feet, the white table with six chairs around it for six china occupants, and upon it six miniature cups from the pale blue china tea-set with the picturesque f1gures-- all these were part of my six o'clock life. Every night I had to perform the same operation of putting all my toys away solemnly and methodically, while my mother stood beside me patiently, but at last resorted to picking them up herself, a recourse with which I loudly disagreed. Next, to delay the procedure, I could always find some book or fluffy Teddy Bear out of place, or one doll that wanted me to tuck her in, and kiss her good-night, Coaxing was of no avail, until the master of the house appeared. He made short work of good- nights. At one clap of his big strong hands, there was a scrambling to hide under the warm pink covers and feign sleepy innocence, a hasty prayer, two good-night kisses, a window opened - then darkness and quiet. When I was a child, I spake as a child ..... when I became a man I put away childish things. I have put away my childish things, but still bed-
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Page 42 text:
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38 THE BLUE MOON Great-uncle Howard was born in the proper town of Bath, New Hamp- shire. At the age of seventeen, he left this dead village and went to Dart- mouth College. Of this fact he is very proud, and he has never been known to miss a class reunion. Ever since I can remember, this illustrious gentleman has been living from September to July in a studio in Greenwich Village, where he sells books for a publishing house. This studio has one room, a bath, and a kitchen., I am told by his wife, Minnie, that this winter home is so dirty that she refuses to live there. In fact, in winter she insists on going South. Uncle Howard defends himself on this matter. Minnie is unfair to me, he says. How could I keep my two angora kittens in a filthy home? Once a week I wash this floor myself, on my hands and knees. Then I dust and wash the dishes too-all because of my kittens, Ethelbert and Miss Plani, who after their weekly baths insist on rolling on the floor. So you see I must keep my house clean. Every summer from July to September, Aunt Minnie and the two cats live with him in the ancestral home. As he owns no car, the pussies travel to Bath in wicker baskets, mewing incessantly and indignantly under his seat on the train. I am told that Ethelbert lgwho has attained the noble and enfeebling age of thirteenj, hides when wicker baskets are produced. Uncle Howard has four hobbies, his writings, his genealogy, his Greater Gramercy Club, and his harmonica. One cannot say that he is an excellent harmonicist. But one can say that his music is pleasing to the ear. His tunes are far from modern or classic. the most often heard numbers being Little Brown Jug and Turkey in the Straw. As for writing, he is more clever telling his stories than writing them down. He is an inveterate talker. In that way he reminds me of Coleridge, because it is possible for him to talk in his mellow voice hours on end without becoming a bore. Occasionally ambition overtakes him, and he writes a short story or poem which is published in some obscure magazine. The Greater Gramercy Club is well known by successful and unsuccessful artists and poets, shop girls and millionaires, janitors and society leaders, alike. The rules are strict. Uncle Howard, as everyone calls him, must always be president: to be admitted to the club one must cross the threshold of the studio: the initiation is being fed fried chicken and waffles by Uncle Howard: there are no dues. After observing the above rules one becomes a life member. Talking about his genealogy is his one bad fault. When Uncle Howard was visiting us this year, he met a man who had the same name as his, Clark. His first salutation after the introduction was Do you know any Clark genealogy? At this greeting Mr. Clark was amazed and replied, UNO, I'm afraid I don't. That was not enough to satisfy Uncle Howard. Immediately he went into ecstasies about historic Clarks, beginning with 1600 A.D.
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