Athens and New Delhi.) None of Father's other children share the view of him that I have offered. Nancy found it harder to forgive the harsh terms of that long-ago divorce and the worrying sort of love that came from our guilt-worn mother. The twins, Abby and Christopher, recall a father who was too old for the jobâhe was fifty-five when they were bornâand too willing to hand
the work over to others. Quite by chance, I had the best of him, and it was by luck that I had final word of him in the early '90s, almost a quarter century after his death, when a woman I didn't know sent me a clipping from the August, 1903, issue of
St. Nicholas
magazine. Both of my parents had grown up reading this famous children's monthly, and both of them had been contributors to the "St. Nicholas League," a popular feature that ran poems and stories and drawings and photographs by young subscribers. The clip that was marked for meâI have no idea how my correspondent knew the connectionâwas called "Polly's Fourth (A True Story)," with the byline "by Ernest Angell (Age 13)." It begins briskly: "One 29th of June found Polly Stewart and her parents in the city of Montreal. Late that evening they took a steamer en route for England, sailing early the next morning." The story goes on, in unadorned prose, to describe the wonders of the "ever-widening St. Lawrence" and the option that liners had in summertime of steaming north of Newfoundland, instead of taking the longer southern route. Polly's vessel goes north, and passes the Strait of Belle Isle. But "when Polly awoke the next morning the engines were still and silence reigned....The steamer was inclosed by ice stretching as far as the eye could reach, tumbled, irregular, of a pale green color!" The vessel lies motionless in this dangerous situation, "save when the ice parted a little around the boat, showing the black water....Of course the weather was bitterly cold." The next day, the ship moves more freely, drawing clear of the floes, although it is learned that during the night it grazed a large iceberg. "The rest of the voyage was uneventful, and the
Stewarts arrived in due time at Liverpool. But that Fourth in the ice Polly will never forget."
Neither had my father forgotten, for the journey he writes, with its proper date, takes his father's boat north of Newfoundland, rather than on the fatal course to the south, and he steers its passengers and crew safely home at last. I can't get this brusque tale out of my mind, or account for the audacity of its author. He has rewritten the worst moments of his life, and, at whatever price, put them behind him. At thirteen, he is on his own, and ready for all of us who await him eagerly up the line.
Twice Christmas
T HE black dog of Christmas jumps in the window, right on schedule, around eleven in the morning, or maybe sneaks in the front door you've just opened to admit the granddaughter who's here on time, after allâher cheek cold from outdoorsâbefore the serious present-opening. It's still skulking around a little later when you make a tour of the room to pick up the ribbons and bright ripped-off wrappings and the cards (well, save the cards) and walk back to stuff them deep into the big kitchen wastebasket. Come on, this is Christmas, so brighten up, can't you? Listen to them, out there. Smile. Back before this oneâon Christmas Day, 1931, let's sayâthe day began for my sister Nancy and me and our father with the stockings. Our narrow brownstonehouse living room had a mantelpiece made of some dark oaky wood, with carved wreaths on the flankings, on either side of the fireplace: exactly the right thing, I noticed again, for this one day of the year. Then the tree, then the presents, then the lonely aunt and weird old cousins arriving to be cheered up on this special day. The goose, well carved by Father. The plum pudding, with bits of burnt matches floating in the brandy that at last takes light. The hard
the work over to others. Quite by chance, I had the best of him, and it was by luck that I had final word of him in the early '90s, almost a quarter century after his death, when a woman I didn't know sent me a clipping from the August, 1903, issue of
St. Nicholas
magazine. Both of my parents had grown up reading this famous children's monthly, and both of them had been contributors to the "St. Nicholas League," a popular feature that ran poems and stories and drawings and photographs by young subscribers. The clip that was marked for meâI have no idea how my correspondent knew the connectionâwas called "Polly's Fourth (A True Story)," with the byline "by Ernest Angell (Age 13)." It begins briskly: "One 29th of June found Polly Stewart and her parents in the city of Montreal. Late that evening they took a steamer en route for England, sailing early the next morning." The story goes on, in unadorned prose, to describe the wonders of the "ever-widening St. Lawrence" and the option that liners had in summertime of steaming north of Newfoundland, instead of taking the longer southern route. Polly's vessel goes north, and passes the Strait of Belle Isle. But "when Polly awoke the next morning the engines were still and silence reigned....The steamer was inclosed by ice stretching as far as the eye could reach, tumbled, irregular, of a pale green color!" The vessel lies motionless in this dangerous situation, "save when the ice parted a little around the boat, showing the black water....Of course the weather was bitterly cold." The next day, the ship moves more freely, drawing clear of the floes, although it is learned that during the night it grazed a large iceberg. "The rest of the voyage was uneventful, and the
Stewarts arrived in due time at Liverpool. But that Fourth in the ice Polly will never forget."
Neither had my father forgotten, for the journey he writes, with its proper date, takes his father's boat north of Newfoundland, rather than on the fatal course to the south, and he steers its passengers and crew safely home at last. I can't get this brusque tale out of my mind, or account for the audacity of its author. He has rewritten the worst moments of his life, and, at whatever price, put them behind him. At thirteen, he is on his own, and ready for all of us who await him eagerly up the line.
Twice Christmas
T HE black dog of Christmas jumps in the window, right on schedule, around eleven in the morning, or maybe sneaks in the front door you've just opened to admit the granddaughter who's here on time, after allâher cheek cold from outdoorsâbefore the serious present-opening. It's still skulking around a little later when you make a tour of the room to pick up the ribbons and bright ripped-off wrappings and the cards (well, save the cards) and walk back to stuff them deep into the big kitchen wastebasket. Come on, this is Christmas, so brighten up, can't you? Listen to them, out there. Smile. Back before this oneâon Christmas Day, 1931, let's sayâthe day began for my sister Nancy and me and our father with the stockings. Our narrow brownstonehouse living room had a mantelpiece made of some dark oaky wood, with carved wreaths on the flankings, on either side of the fireplace: exactly the right thing, I noticed again, for this one day of the year. Then the tree, then the presents, then the lonely aunt and weird old cousins arriving to be cheered up on this special day. The goose, well carved by Father. The plum pudding, with bits of burnt matches floating in the brandy that at last takes light. The hard
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