remember that I didn’t have to marry at all, which would start my mother off on a long harangue. “Of course you don’t have to marry, sweetheart, no one ever said you had to do anything. But keep your eyes open for the right one, because it isn’t easy, darling, in your situation. The best ones get snapped up right away. I remember when that dear little Blessing girl from Cleveland took her time deciding whether or not to marry that dear little Tompkins boy who was studying to be a doctor, and before she knew it he turned around and married what’s-her-name who won the TADpole chess tournament every year, remember?”
“Mitzi Blessing isn’t sorry she didn’t marry Willard Tompkins,” I said. “She’s a teacher now.”
“She isn’t married, though,” said my mother. “She’s still living at home, and she’s in her twenties now. A doctor doesn’t come along every day of the week in TADpoles, not a medical doctor!”
“Mitzi Blessing could care less,” I said.
“Well, her poor mother lies awake nights worrying about her, and I know that for a fact!”
“That’s her problem,” said my father.
“All we’re talking about here is a happy life,” said my mother. “A rich, full, happy life, which you are entitled to, Little Little, the same as anyone else.”
“No one’s saying you have to be married to be happy,” said my father.
“But,” said my mother, “you’ll never convince me that Mitzi Blessing is happy teaching school period. There’s more to life than that. There’s children, your own home.”
On and on.
Little Lion’s letter was four pages long, typewritten front and back, with this P.S.:
Your grandfather suspects I’m going to talk to your father at your birthday banquet. I think that’s the reason he’s arranged to have me address his congregation while I’m in La Belle (so your father can see me in action). He also wondered if I’d like to speak at Twin Oaks in Wilton, where they have a special junior school for the physically exceptional. (I can’t make that, though.) He said at one time you wanted to go there as a day student, commuting from La Belle. There’s so much I don’t know about you, Little Little, so much I’m eager to learn about my love!
“I don’t want you taking a bus all the way to a school like that,” my mother used to argue whenever the subject of Twin Oaks came up. “A school like that is for children whose parents don’t want them.”
“Don’t love them,” my father said.
“Don’t realize they have to live in the real world, Little Little.”
“A school like that one at Twin Oaks is where parents send children they don’t know how to deal with,” said my father. “Most of the children in that school live there.”
“Maybe they like living there,” I said. “Maybe those kids want out.”
“Out of what?” my mother said.
“Out of the real world?” my father said.
“Why not?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s no way out of the real world,” my mother said.
My father said, “It’s there, Little Little.”
“Not in that school.”
“I don’t even like the description of that school,” said my mother. “For the physically exceptional. Something about that description doesn’t sit right with me. Two-headed people could go to that school.”
“Two heads are better than one,” I said.
“Little Little, this is a serious subject!” said my mother. “Most of the children in that place have been dumped there! Now, that’s a strong word, but I think that’s the only word for most of the children in that school. I don’t want you spending your days in a depressing environment!”
One afternoon, my father and mother and I drove to Wilton for a tour of the school, which was a separate part of Twin Oaks.
“I just can’t see you going there, sweetheart,” my mother said all the way back in the car.
“It’s not that it’s a bad place,” said my father.
“It’s a nice enough
“Mitzi Blessing isn’t sorry she didn’t marry Willard Tompkins,” I said. “She’s a teacher now.”
“She isn’t married, though,” said my mother. “She’s still living at home, and she’s in her twenties now. A doctor doesn’t come along every day of the week in TADpoles, not a medical doctor!”
“Mitzi Blessing could care less,” I said.
“Well, her poor mother lies awake nights worrying about her, and I know that for a fact!”
“That’s her problem,” said my father.
“All we’re talking about here is a happy life,” said my mother. “A rich, full, happy life, which you are entitled to, Little Little, the same as anyone else.”
“No one’s saying you have to be married to be happy,” said my father.
“But,” said my mother, “you’ll never convince me that Mitzi Blessing is happy teaching school period. There’s more to life than that. There’s children, your own home.”
On and on.
Little Lion’s letter was four pages long, typewritten front and back, with this P.S.:
Your grandfather suspects I’m going to talk to your father at your birthday banquet. I think that’s the reason he’s arranged to have me address his congregation while I’m in La Belle (so your father can see me in action). He also wondered if I’d like to speak at Twin Oaks in Wilton, where they have a special junior school for the physically exceptional. (I can’t make that, though.) He said at one time you wanted to go there as a day student, commuting from La Belle. There’s so much I don’t know about you, Little Little, so much I’m eager to learn about my love!
“I don’t want you taking a bus all the way to a school like that,” my mother used to argue whenever the subject of Twin Oaks came up. “A school like that is for children whose parents don’t want them.”
“Don’t love them,” my father said.
“Don’t realize they have to live in the real world, Little Little.”
“A school like that one at Twin Oaks is where parents send children they don’t know how to deal with,” said my father. “Most of the children in that school live there.”
“Maybe they like living there,” I said. “Maybe those kids want out.”
“Out of what?” my mother said.
“Out of the real world?” my father said.
“Why not?” I said. “What’s wrong with that?”
“There’s no way out of the real world,” my mother said.
My father said, “It’s there, Little Little.”
“Not in that school.”
“I don’t even like the description of that school,” said my mother. “For the physically exceptional. Something about that description doesn’t sit right with me. Two-headed people could go to that school.”
“Two heads are better than one,” I said.
“Little Little, this is a serious subject!” said my mother. “Most of the children in that place have been dumped there! Now, that’s a strong word, but I think that’s the only word for most of the children in that school. I don’t want you spending your days in a depressing environment!”
One afternoon, my father and mother and I drove to Wilton for a tour of the school, which was a separate part of Twin Oaks.
“I just can’t see you going there, sweetheart,” my mother said all the way back in the car.
“It’s not that it’s a bad place,” said my father.
“It’s a nice enough
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