in this class,” he prophesied.
Walking around the room, he looked each of us in the eye. I felt he spent an extra minute when he stood in front of me—like he’d prejudged my future, and I’d failed his test.
I spent my lunch hour crying.
Here I was—nearly thirty. I had to admit to myself—in Mr. Nelson’s eyes—I was a failure. I’d quit college to marry Steve. I wasn’t an engineer, a doctor, or a dentist—the only professions Mr. Nelson touted as being important. Why, I wasn’t even a teacher or a nurse (second best, but the only jobs my nemesis-teacher said girls could aspire to).
True, I’d just moved into a beautiful home and was in the process of decorating it. I sewed almost everything the girls and I wore. I’d upholstered sofas and chairs, made draw-drapes, wall-papered three bathrooms and the entry hall since February. And started making a quilt for our queen-size bed. I had two smart daughters who were doing me proud in school.
As president of Tri Gamma, I’d walked up to the podium during the state convention of the Washington State Junior Women’s Clubs at the Olympic Hotel in Seattle. I’d accepted the 1964 award for community service—a humongous silver bowl simply called the Gyllenburg. (The award was a tribute to Charlotte Gyllenburg who, in 1935, had become the first president of the Junior Federation of the General Federation of Women’s Clubs.)
I remember tracing the inscription on that bowl—GYLLENBURG—with my index finger and thinking of the motto our group said at the beginning of each meeting.
I pledge my loyalty to the Junior Club women,
By doing better than ever before
What work I have to do,
By being prompt, honest, courteous,
By living each day, trying to accomplish something,
Not merely to exist.
It had been a proud moment. I adopted the “living each day, trying to accomplish something, not merely to exist” as my mantra.
But I could just hear Mr. Nelson’s retort, “That’s different.” He made “different” sound like a dirty word.
Yes, I felt sorry for myself. I was lonely. I missed my five-day-a-week, hour-every-day coffee klatch with my friend Laura—solving the problems of the world. And our own.
My husband loved his new job. My daughters had assimilated beautifully. But me? Sometimes I felt like I was Alice tumbling down the rabbit hole.
I remembered April of 1964—when I was working full-time on finishing up our Junior Women’s Club project, writing the state reports, and working on the next dance sponsored by Couples Fifty.
One night I didn’t get home from my last meeting until almost 5 p.m. (I wasn’t worried about my daughters—Steve’s sister was visiting us).
When Steve arrived at 5:15 looking for dinner, I could have climbed into a hole had one been available.
I couldn’t believe my negligence—I’d completely forgotten to cook dinner!
The girls and Dodo were okay with peanut butter sandwiches, canned peaches, and oatmeal cookies and ice cream for dessert.
Steve was not.
Dinner conversation was nil.
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