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In Praise of Mothers: A Literary Anthology
Includes works by such authors as Frank O'Connor, Alice Walker, Jane Goodall, Pearl S. Buck, and Louise Erdrich
234 pages, Hardcover
First published August 25, 1994
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Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews
September 22, 2021
I tracked down this anthology to reread “Everyday Use” by Alice Walker. Of all the shirt stories in the collection, it still stands out as excellent. The other stories were great, too.
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June 3, 2023Grove Atlantic
February 15, 2012
A collection of stories. My favorite, "My Oedipus Complex" by Frank O'Connor is VERY charming.
Father was in the army all through the war-the first war, I mean-so, up to the age of five, I never saw much of him, and what I saw did not worry me. Sometimes I woke and there was a big figure in khaki peering down at me in the candlelight. Sometimes in the early morning I heard the slamming of the front door and the clatter of nailed boots down the cobbles of the lane. These were Father’s entrances and exits. Like Santa Claus he came and went mysteriously.
In fact, I rather liked his visits, though it was an uncomfortable squeeze between Mother and him when I got into the big bed in the early morning. He smoked, which gave him a pleasant musty smell, and shaved, an operation of astounding interest. Each time he left a trail of souvenirs-model tanks and Gurkha knives with handles made of bullet cases, and German helmets and cap badges and button-sticks, and all sort of military equipment….
…The war was the most peaceful period of my life. The window of my attic faced southeast. My mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always woke with the first light and, with all the responsibilities of the previous, feeling myself rather like the sun, ready to illumine and rejoice. Life never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I put my feet out from under the clothes-I called them Mrs. Left and Mrs. Right- and invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of the day. At least Mrs. Right did; she was very demonstrative, but I hadn’t the same control of Mrs. Left, so she mostly contented herself with nodding agreement.”
Feeling like the sun ready to illumine and rejoice!
At teatime, ‘talking to Daddy’ began again, complicated this time by the fact that he had an evening paper, and every few minutes he put it down and told Mother something new out of it. I felt this was foul play. Man for man, I was prepared to compete with him any time for Mother’s attention, but when he had it all made up for him by other people it left me no chance.
“Mummy,” I said that night when she was tucking me up, do you think if I prayed hard God would send Daddy back to the war?” She seemed to think about that for moment.
“No dear,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think he would”
“Why wouldn’t he, Mummy?”
“Because there isn’t a war any longer, dear.”
“But, Mummy, couldn’t God make another war, if He liked?”
“He wouldn’t like to, dear. It’s not God who makes wars, but bad people.”
“Oh!” I said.
I was disappointed about that. I began to think that God wasn’t quite what he was cracked up to be.
Remember the scene in Toy Story when Buzz and Woody hear there’s a new puppy?
One night I woke with a start. There was someone beside me in the bed. For one wild moment I felt sure it must be Mother, having come to her senses and left Father for good, but then I heard Sonny in convulsions in the next room, and Mother saying: “There! There! There!” and I knew it wasn’t she. It was Father. He was lying beside me, wide awake, breathing hard and apparently as mad as hell
After a while it came to me what he was mad about. It was his turn now. After turning me out of the big bed, he had been turned out himself. Mother had no consideration now for anyone but that poisonous pup, Sonny. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Father. I had been through it all myself, and even at that age I was magnanimous….
A sweet story.
Father was in the army all through the war-the first war, I mean-so, up to the age of five, I never saw much of him, and what I saw did not worry me. Sometimes I woke and there was a big figure in khaki peering down at me in the candlelight. Sometimes in the early morning I heard the slamming of the front door and the clatter of nailed boots down the cobbles of the lane. These were Father’s entrances and exits. Like Santa Claus he came and went mysteriously.
In fact, I rather liked his visits, though it was an uncomfortable squeeze between Mother and him when I got into the big bed in the early morning. He smoked, which gave him a pleasant musty smell, and shaved, an operation of astounding interest. Each time he left a trail of souvenirs-model tanks and Gurkha knives with handles made of bullet cases, and German helmets and cap badges and button-sticks, and all sort of military equipment….
…The war was the most peaceful period of my life. The window of my attic faced southeast. My mother had curtained it, but that had small effect. I always woke with the first light and, with all the responsibilities of the previous, feeling myself rather like the sun, ready to illumine and rejoice. Life never seemed so simple and clear and full of possibilities as then. I put my feet out from under the clothes-I called them Mrs. Left and Mrs. Right- and invented dramatic situations for them in which they discussed the problems of the day. At least Mrs. Right did; she was very demonstrative, but I hadn’t the same control of Mrs. Left, so she mostly contented herself with nodding agreement.”
Feeling like the sun ready to illumine and rejoice!
At teatime, ‘talking to Daddy’ began again, complicated this time by the fact that he had an evening paper, and every few minutes he put it down and told Mother something new out of it. I felt this was foul play. Man for man, I was prepared to compete with him any time for Mother’s attention, but when he had it all made up for him by other people it left me no chance.
“Mummy,” I said that night when she was tucking me up, do you think if I prayed hard God would send Daddy back to the war?” She seemed to think about that for moment.
“No dear,” she said with a smile. “I don’t think he would”
“Why wouldn’t he, Mummy?”
“Because there isn’t a war any longer, dear.”
“But, Mummy, couldn’t God make another war, if He liked?”
“He wouldn’t like to, dear. It’s not God who makes wars, but bad people.”
“Oh!” I said.
I was disappointed about that. I began to think that God wasn’t quite what he was cracked up to be.
Remember the scene in Toy Story when Buzz and Woody hear there’s a new puppy?
One night I woke with a start. There was someone beside me in the bed. For one wild moment I felt sure it must be Mother, having come to her senses and left Father for good, but then I heard Sonny in convulsions in the next room, and Mother saying: “There! There! There!” and I knew it wasn’t she. It was Father. He was lying beside me, wide awake, breathing hard and apparently as mad as hell
After a while it came to me what he was mad about. It was his turn now. After turning me out of the big bed, he had been turned out himself. Mother had no consideration now for anyone but that poisonous pup, Sonny. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Father. I had been through it all myself, and even at that age I was magnanimous….
A sweet story.
Displaying 1 - 3 of 3 reviews