Earliest Recollection

My earliest recollection is of a debate I had with my mother. I was almost two years old and in my high chair.

Mother had brought me supper, which included a carefully mashed sweet potato. There was also an unpeeled sweet potato on the tray. I said I wanted that one. My mother said the mashed potato was for me. I said I wanted the whole one. Mother said I must eat the mashed potato. Then, appealing to my better instincts, she said the whole potato was for her, without it she wouldn’t have any supper. My better instincts were small. I said I wanted the whole potato and got it.

That was about seventy-five years ago. I doubt if one remembers things that far back on a straight line. I thought of that potato every five or ten years, always with a sense of guilt. I was thirty-five or forty before I woke up and realized that Mother could have eaten my potato. Since then I’ve felt better.

Before going any further I should say that I think my mother was the sweetest person in the world. If she wasn’t, at least she was tied for first place.

A story illustrates Mother’s sweetness. She and her sister Bertha were driving from New York to Montgomery, Alabama. After about 150 miles they stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch. Mother had to walk around the front of the car. As she passed the grille, she saw the usual gnats and moths to be expected there, and exclaimed, “My goodness, Bertha, can’t you be more careful?” When Aunt Bertha told us this story we laughed at the idea of her driving down the highway dodging moths and other bugs. Years later it occurred to me that it showed how sweet my mother was. She even worried about little bugs.

Mother loved me, which wasn’t always easy; I loved her, which was always easy.

Next Section: At the Beginning