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World War ll London Blitz:  Buy On Smashwords
Yoga Fairy Coloring Book by Adele Aldridge Buy on Amazon

I am the great-granddaughter of Ruby Side Thompson. 

Recently I started re-reading the World War ll journals and felt that they were such an important part of a history that will soon be forgotten if not published and shared with the world. These diary excerpts are not the entirety of what is published in print and kindle.
Ruby grew up during a time when education was just beginning to be encouraged for both upper and middle class women. During the late 1890's Ruby explored many radical political ideas of London, England. She met many famous people including the writers George Bernard Shaw and William Butler Yeats. 
5.0 out of 5 stars A choice pick, not to be overlooked, November 6, 2011 By Midwest Book Review (Oregon, WI USA)

Review by WisteriaMag.Com for Yoga Fairy Coloring Book 

Yoga Fairies coloring book is not only magical and fun (I mean, fairies doing yoga, what's not awesome about that?) but it also serves as a platform to stimulate emotional and physical well-being. On top of that, it is an original artist design. As an artist myself, I believe this makes it even more amazing. In my opinion, this could be the best coloring book you ever buy. I know I will be getting one for my nieces, my sister and also for myself! 


The coloring book Yoga Fairies by Adele Aldridge is pure genius. It features fairies demonstrating yoga poses, so that while you are coloring you are learning  yoga. 

Unless you are a yoga pro, it can be hard to remember all of the poses. When you are taking your time and coloring the poses it allows you the time and concentration to really study the pose and remember it. 

Bringing back My Grandfather: John H. Thompson; Son Of Ruby Alice Side Thompson

John H. Thompson – Son of Ruby Alice Side Thompson-Grandfather of Victoria Aldridge Washuk

Found and collected by
John H. Thompson

Isaac Newton
I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.


Monday at 6:45 a.m. I was born at 554 Avenue E. Bayonne, NJ.
Moved to Jersey City.


Family moved to 758 Avenue A. Bayonne, NJ

September 1914 
Started school at St. Henry’s Catholic school.

June 30, 1919
Moved to Wright Avenue, Bayside, Long Island, NY

Moved to Taft’s in Bayonne about April 1920

June 1920
Mother, Harold, Jimmie, Chili, Sket, and Fred went to England. Dad, Eddie and I took an apartment on 17th Street near 3rd Ave in New York City. Attended St. Stephen’s parochial school.

December 1920 
Dad, Eddie and I moved into 523 Knickerbocker Road, Tenafly, NJ. The happiest days of my life.


Spent parts of several summers with Bill Clarke at his summer place in Cornwall Bridge, CT. His father, Dr. Clarke, the person with the strongest influence on my character aside from my family.

June 1926
Harold and I left high school before graduation to ship as deck hands on S.S. Dromore Castle, Union-Castle Line, a British ship for St. Helena and South Africa. Upon arrival in Cape Town received a cable informing me I had won a four-year full scholarship to Rutger’s University. Proceeded up East Coast of South Africa to Fort Elizabeth where I transferred to S.S. Dundrum Castle for Baltimore; Harold continuing on Dromore. Stopped at Cape Town, Walfish Bay, and St. Vincent on return trip. Left ship as soon as it docked in Baltimore, as I was short on time needed to complete some high school work needed to get a diploma. Entered Rutgers barely in time for September term.

July 5, 1927
Started work at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in NYC having applied for a temporary summer job in answer to an ad for college students interested in becoming actuaries.

September 1927
Decided to continue at Metropolitan on a permanent basis and become an actuary. I preferred this to completing college although it meant giving up the remaining three years of scholarship.

October 1927
Eddie, Harold, Jimmie, and I bought a corporation of which I became secretary at the mature age of seventeen. The corporation bought a house, “The Cottage,” and twelve acres of land to the rear of 523 Knickerbocker Road.

November 1927
Dad sold 523 Knickerbocker Road and he, Ma, Chili, Sket, and Fred moved to England. Eddie, Harold, Jimmie, and I moved into “The Cottage” to keep bachelor quarters. The happiest days of my life. Would love to write a whole book about this alone.

Summers 1928 through 1931
Attended Citizen’s Military Training Camp at Plattsburgh Barracks on Lake Champlain. Finished as sergeant and was urged to apply for a commission but demurred.

December 1930 – January 1931
Harold and Jimmie blew me to a trip to England and France. All expenses paid! How many people do you know lucky enough to have brothers like that? They don’t make them like that anymore. 

September 1, 1933
The happiest day of my life. Married Ruth Louise Ferris. Lived in 523 Knickerbocker Road.

Became an Associate by examination of both the American Society of Actuaries and American Institute of Actuaries. In 1949 these two bodies merged to become the Society of Actuaries of which in 1985 I am still a member.

Moved to Sunset Lane, Tenafly

Moved to 139 Grove Street, Tenafly, the less affluent section of town. A miserable move for the family; not the happiest days of our lives.

Easter Sunday 1944
Missed draft by two days. Was due to appear on Tuesday for my physical exam to be drafted but announcement came through that they were drafting no one over age 26.

January 1957
Metropolitan transferred me to San Francisco. Drove across continent with Ruth, Gary, and Alan. Liven in four different places while there. The happiest days of my life.

January 1, 1958
Promoted to Assistant Vice President of Metropolitan.

1960-1965 Third Vice President

December 1, 1965 - Second Vice President


Became a member of the American Academy of Actuaries, a body formed in 1965.

March 1969
Metropolitan transferred me back to NYC, Lived in Peter Cooper Village, First Avenue and 22nd Street in NYC.

Bought and moved into Ruth’s father’s place at 705 Bergen St. in Bellmore, LI so he could live with us in his beloved home as he was no longer capable of living alone.

March 26, 1974
Last day at work at Metropolitan Life. Retired as Vice-President. The happiest days of my life.

December 3-10 1975
Drove to California to live in our condominium #33 at 410 Church Road in Ojai. The happiest years of my life.

September 3, 1983 – Kids gave us a Golden Wedding Party.


                                     Of Making Books There Is No End

                                     Justin Huntley McCarthy

                                     A Ballad Of Book-Making
                                     The playwright's mouth, the preachers jangle, 
                                     The critics challenge and defend,
                                     And Fiction turns the Muses' mangle
                                     Of making books there is no end.

Ruby Alice Thompson - Journal - October 12, 1917

I have been thinking an awful lot about Grandma Side of late. I think will make time to write a sketch of her. She was a noteworthy woman; and anyhow it might interest some of my children or grandchildren.

I am really writing this diary for my grandchildren. Diaries seem awful nonsense when you look back through those you write and you yourself appear such a conceited fool in them -- but still, to grandchildren, they may present  a curious fossilized tableau of our times. What would I not give for Grandma Side's old diaries: diaries she was writing from 1840 to 1870 or so? Why did she destroy them? What treasures they would have been to me! I hope I won't get a fit of disgust at mine and destroy them pell-mell twenty years or so hence. I have a dream favorite granddaughter and these scribbles are for her. 

Dear God: Please break me a leg-painlessly. I want to write a book but am already too busy with other activities and breaking a leg would salvage me the twenty-odd hours per week now preempted by tennis. But, God, be sure to remember that part about painlessly.

I am not even certain it is exactly a "book" I want to write but shall use that term until I see what emerges. I am now reading 42 volumes of a journal my mother maintained over a period of 60 years, from 1909-1969, from the time she was a young matron until her eyesight failed her a few months before she died. When she was no longer able to read or write she was deprived of her two compulsive pleasures and decided to close her life-book forever. 

As a curious aside, Dad died for a similar reason. He had been doing the household chores and generally looking after Ma and when she departed, his mission was over and he died two months later -- even though he was in full charge right up to his final day maintaining his own household and even preparing for a transatlantic voyage. 

I am enjoying Mother’s journal to no end. It provides ever so many insights into her ideas and opinions and she had excellent ideas and clever opinions and is written in a style I much admire. Mother always carried around a book in her head struggling to get out; and excellent portions of it did emerge in her journal, in her letters, and in her conversation. She gave each of her seven sons a large measure of her literary interest and a modicum of her ability so I should like to leave a few written lines to bring peace to her soul. Not that I have any bigger modicum than her other six sons but there is so much of interest to be recorded and it is high time someone of my generation got started on such a project. Besides that, if I throw around a word like that modicum once in a while I can pretend to some of Mother’s literary ability among those who know better.  Additionally I hope to encourage others of my generation and of later generations (of whom there are several) to do likewise, and even better, while the baseball sized literary genes of Ruby Alice Thompson still exist the size of walnuts.

I, too, wish my father and grandparents had provided similar insights into their thoughts and times and it is for this reason I have now decided (even before I have finished reading Mother’s journal) to leave a record, a glimpse of me, for my grandchildren. Being now 74 years old, naturally I cannot attempt anything approaching the magnitude of Mother’s sixty-year opus but shall see what I can accomplish in sixty weeks.  That is why I want a broken leg so I can get on with it. In an effort to save some time pending the breaking of that leg, I have already curtailed my chess activity by about half by not entering any 1983 or 1984 tournaments. However I am still engaged in playing the Finals of the 1981 U.S. Open Correspondence Chess Championship, which will not be completed until 1986 or 1987. I am currently ranked number 7 therein but am playing against # 1,2,3,10,11, and 13-a fearsome bunch of players and I doubt I shall be able to hold my #7 position. The best I have ever finished is # 19, in the 1976 U.S. Open.

Each generation of Quakers used to strive (perhaps they still so strive)? To leave more land to their descendants then they acquired from their ancestors. While this is most laudable objective from the standpoint of a particular family or sect (and I wish my father pursued it more vigorously) it is no longer a practical one from the broader social viewpoint of the nation as a whole because of the limited amount of land available. However it is feasible for each generation to leave successive ones a cache of their stories notions, and conclusions just as Mother did, just as I shall now attempt.

In addition to emulating my mother by leaving something of possible interest for my descendants there are several other forces impelling me to record some personal trivia.

For one thing I enjoy writing; it gives me the impression, correct or not, that someone is paying attention. In the typical cocktail party the talkers outnumber the listeners in a ratio greater than four to one. We have several fine friends who will ask you a question and will then interrupt your answer before it is fairly started. Or they will make a point and you will start a counterpoint but before you have gotten well into it they repeat their original point as though you had not heard it, and this frequently even after you have reiterated and conceded their original point. This can go through several such cycles without your ever being allowed to say your piece. All this is not confined to cocktail parties but often is carried over into general conversation.

It is freely admitted that no on may pay attention to what is written, either, but you at least get the impression they might; very likely some of them do. In any event if I enjoy writing this one-third as much as I am enjoying reading my mother’s work I shall be repaid in grand excess. I really feel and desperately hope some of you out there, or to be out there, will appreciate at least parts of it.

I love to write in much the same fashion I like to play tennis; you don’t need to be club champion in order to enjoy the game.

My friend Mike Pemberton lent me a manuscript left by his grandfather (or somebody such), which I much enjoyed for its flavor even though I never knew the man, and Mike several times suggested I write such a memoir. I interpret this request as a most gracious compliment and am here responding accordingly. I now accord Mike the credit for adding his stick of dynamite to Mother’s sparked explosion.

Another thing, I recently acquired a personal computer/word processor, a new toy I find hard to get away from; and what better way to use it than to record some of my firm conclusions (prejudices, to you).

Caveat: The English language, the beautiful English language, is deficient in a few areas. Technically I am still my grandfather’s grandchild even though I am no longer a child, confusion in terms. In like manner, I mentioned these Pebbles are being collected for my grandchildren to read after they have grown up much as I am now thoroughly enjoying Mother’s journal now but would have been confused by it had I read it as a boy.


T.S. Eliot…The Hollow Men
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

This is a story without either a plot or a moral, lacking a villain; but there may have been a victim—you tell me. Tales about children traditionally parallel those about storms or other natural disasters—difficulty after difficulty, stress after stress, trouble after trouble, but eventually a clearing, the sound of French horns, followed by living happily ever after. But such is not the case in the tale of Wayne; but still it must be told. Part of the history.

In Tenafly, N.J. Easter morning of 1956 brought a continuation of a cold all night rain. I had returned from taking our four Catholic children to early mass and Ruth was off to Presbyterian services with Alan, our Protestant one. The ecumenical nature of the Thompson family is another story that should be recounted at another time. Come to think of it, Ruth tells it excellently and I shall ask her to give me a chapter thereon for inclusion here.

In going to the front door to pick up the newspaper that had just been delivered I noticed a strange bundle in the far corner of the porch. It did not take much closer approach to reveal a young boy, dripping wet and hunkered down with his arms wrapped around his knees although trying to retain what little body heat he had remaining. You did not need a degree in social work to see that he was in trouble. I approached him casually, not too close, trying to act as though a small boy was delivered each morning with the newspaper—and invited him in for crumb buns and hot milk, an invitation he accepted very politely but without any show of hesitation.  He picked up on the casual motif and accepted the large Turkish towels I offered just as though that was standard practice upon entering a house, like taking holy water upon entering church. I also placed both cold and heated milk on the table along with a dozen crumb buns and explained that I, personally, much preferred the heated milk on such a bleak day and he was polite enough to join me therein. I never saw anyone eat as many crumb buns or enjoy them more, unless maybe it was myself, a certified crumb-bun-aholic.

During all this we engaged in a continuous pleasant conversation. He was most friendly and responsive but became evasive whenever I came close to any query that touched upon his remarkable entrance. No, he was not lost. No, he did not live in Tenafly. Yes, he went to school and his name was Wayne Hershberg. Yes, he had spent the night in the woods.

On one of my trips to the kitchen I looked up Hershberg in the phone book and called the only two listed for the county. One did not answer and the other had no children. So I phoned the Tenafly police to report a runaway or a lost person. They had no report of either or any apparent interest in the case without such a report. I asked them if I could keep Wayne if no one claimed him in thirty days. They laughed and said they would keep my phone number in case anything developed. I told them they would have a report soon and to keep me in mind. I made all of these phone calls out of Wayne’s earshot. I did not want him running away a second time, as I would not enjoy following him through the wet woods.

When the crumb buns and hot milk had taken hold Wayne expressed interest in the chessmen on the coffee table, so I offered to teach him a game. We were engaged in our second game, and I was beating him, too, when Ruth and Alan arrived home from their church. Says Ruth in amazement, “What did we win?” I told her, “Only one game so far, but I have good prospects,” and then spirited her into the back room to explain in private the situation as well as I comprehended it. I told her we called him Wayne because he came with all the downpour.

Ruth quickly became the real heroine of the piece. She made friends with Wayne and as quickly as possible got him into a hot bath and outfitted him with a set of Alan’s clothes and started his own through the washer and dryer.

While this was going on the police called back to ask how many boys we had in our house. I told them, “Three,” figuring our two plus Wayne. They said, “Fine! That’s the right number. We will be right over to pick them all up.” I told them I did not care for that arrangement as I would like to keep the two who were mine but they could have the one that was surplus. They said there should be three as three had run away from an orphanage in Sparkill yesterday morning. They had not gotten the word earlier because Sparkill is about 12 miles north over the border into NY State and they get runaway reports the first day only for NJ cases. In any event they wanted to pick up the one boy right away as a down payment and develop leads on the other two.

Re-enter the heroine. Ruth took the phone and told them they were going to do no such thing; that Wayne’s clothes were not yet out of the dryer; and that we would let them know when he was ready- and she won.

By this time Wayne knew he was in friendly territory and told us more of his story. He and two other boys had run away from an orphanage and spent the night in the woods. The other 2 had decided to go back but Wayne opted for sticking it out and had found our front door unlocked and had come into the enclosed front porch where I had discovered him. We explained to him that the police had to return him to the orphanage but we would keep him a little while first and would see if we could pick him up for another visit with us the following week-end. Delighted!

We established a routine of having Wayne spend weekends with us from Friday supper through Sunday supper, and he just loved that. We understood from the nuns who ran the orphanage that Wayne had no family and no visitors. Usually Ruth picked him up detouring to do so on her way home from her office work of the time. As she drove up Wayne would be waiting curbside and it developed he would frequently have been waiting there for several hours.

Wayne fit right in with our scheme of things just as though he had lived with us all his life. He as crazy about baseball, a great Yankee fan, and most appreciative and attentive when I showed him how to improve his bating by keeping the bat off his shoulder and back of him so his swing did not start with a back swing that had to be reversed as the ball was coming toward him. He would happily play “pep league” by the hour with our boys and any available locals.

Wayne was eleven and Gary and Alan, our youngest, were sixteen and fifteen. Add to this the fact that he was blond like our kids and he appeared as though he were a natural extension of the Thompson family. Incidentally he was a nice appearing boy and bright in his schoolwork and responsive in conversation.

Things went swimmingly for several months and Wayne became a part-time, unofficial member of the family until we made inquiries about adopting him. I do not know whether or not there was any cause and effect relationship between our inquiries and subsequent developments but they developed simultaneously. The nuns running the home asked extensive questions about our religious affiliations, which were fairly complex, certainly unusual. I had been brought up Catholic but was no longer working at it. This made me what they technically know as a pervert, although I thought the term subject to misunderstanding in my case. Ruth had been brought up Protestant but we had been married in a Catholic ceremony to please my mother. This involved a promise to bring up the children Catholic, yet Alan; the youngest was Presbyterian, a sign of retrograde motion. All very confusing. (This involves another interesting tale to be recounted in its own place.)

The nuns told us we could not adopt Wayne that he had two sets of parents arising from a split marriage. Worse yet, from our standpoint, they explained we were having too powerful effect upon Wayne and must decrease the frequency of Wayne’s visits to once a month or so, and naturally we had to comply.

In the early fall it developed that my company was transferring me to San Francisco the first of the new year so we explored the possibility of taking Wayne along, adopted or not adopted. Naturally we struck out on this one. In the course of our discussions with the nuns at the home they requested that when we moved we sever communications with Wayne completely for his sake and that we not write to him or answer any letters he might send to us.

Thus our move to San Francisco in January 1957 marked the end of the chapter, and a sad ending it was. Wayne wrote to us but we did not reply because of the nun’s advice that it would be better for Wayne if we did not do so. He continued to write but the interval between letters kept stretching out until finally we heard no more.

Ruth recalls a slightly different version of this ending. She states he wrote no letters at all. I am not making the point that she is wrong; it is a toss up, but I have searched my memory and I still recall such letters and so must mention my own recollection and give Ruth’s equal attention. A small point that makes no real difference to the general thread of the story and recounted here to indicate that two honest people with good memories can reasonably differ on details.

We often wonder what happened to Wayne. He must be in his late thirties in 1984 and I do hope he is successful and well established. I feel we owe him an apology, or rather an explanation now that it can be given without fear it will harm his psyche.

Wayne Hershberg, if you are out there and this ever comes to your attention, do, please, get in touch with us. We would love to see you and learn how you are doing. Well, I hope.



Frank Alan Weck "You can tell a lot about a man by the wife he chooses."

John Milton… Lycidas
Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth.

I would like to go one step further and remark you can tell a lot about a man by the wife who chooses him, who puts up with him, and I get high marks by either standard. I shall here record for my grandchildren what a fine person their grandmother is and in so doing shine a bit by reflected glory. Everyone should have a grandmother like that…or a wife for that matter. Rather than paint a regular textbook character sketch I shall recite a litany of characteristic items and trust you will get a faithful picture. I shall jump around.

In her 70’s Ruth Thompson rides a bike—no hands!

She likes maps. Just last week she bought a large one of the world, a Mercator projection, and hung it up on the wall of her study, plus a globe for her desk.

She enjoys flying kites and will sail them with little kids on the slightest pretext. It is hard to tell which is the kid.

Well, you say, what’s so great about riding a bike with no hands, liking maps, and sailing kites? Maybe nothing to you, but I like the kind of person who likes those kinds of things—and I am writing this just as much for me as for you: remember?

Ruth Thompson is a wonderful cook; she hasn’t served me an imperfect meal in fifty years. I do not know if God could have made a better cook if he tried, maybe he just never tried. This leads me into something most characteristic. Some good cooks will serve you a fine dish but will avoid divulging the recipe. They may promise to give it up but will then stall—cant find it now; will send it to you later; , etc., etc., but no recipe. Ruth is just the opposite. If you want her recipe she produces it pronto or types it out and gives you a clean copy without any urging. In other words, she is an excellent cook in her own right and is not concerned that others might be enabled to do as well; and I count that characteristic even more praiseworthy than the gustatory one.

Ruth Thompson is a good citizen, and excellent one. She votes for things for the general good rather than for how they affect her particular class and this is too rare a characteristic. For instance she votes for expenditures for education even though her children are all grown up.

She is a great storyteller and has a fine sense of the ludicrous; and she laughs in a hurry, sometimes even at her peril. Example: A day or so after Ruth had a serious operation; Dorothy Mackenzie visited her in the hospital. Dorothy wanted to help by watering the flowers but she was not wearing her glasses so instead of pouring water in the vase she poured it into the open side table drawer, drenching the personal effects therein. The ridiculousness of this “help” struck Ruth as so comical that she had to laugh even though she strained her stitches and the iron clamps holding her together and had to turn to face the wall to avoid reopening her wound.

That operation led to another one, a far worse one. Before sewing her up the surgeon had tangled her intestines, inducing internal gangrene after a couple of weeks. Ruth kept telling the doctor she did not feel right; he kept telling her it was all in her head. Finally they had to rush her off to the hospital again in an ambulance. They phoned me at four o’clock in the morning to come right over to the hospital, obviously because they felt she would not make it through the night. A ghastly sight, spaced out, all tubes, and breathing oxygen. As I stood by her bedside I promised that if she would just pull through and return I would never refuse her anything she really wanted, a promise I have kept to this day—largely. I intend to so continue.

When the doctor introduced her to a colleague in the office some weeks later as “the lady he had pulled back from the brink of death” she told him, “You should have pulled me back; you were the guy who shoved me over.”

She even laughs in her sleep, frequently. She feels it is the easiest way to exhale. When she is telling a joke or recounting a funny story she sometimes laughs so much she has difficulty finishing the tale.

As an aside, I do not at all mind her laughing in her sleep; matter of fact I enjoy it. It is a fine thing to be reassured that there is someone ready enough to laugh that they can do so sub-consciously. The human race is far too serious as it is.

When Abraham was 100 years old God told him his 90-year-old wife would bear him a son—so he laughed, and when the son was born he named him Isaac, which means laughter. Fitting. Similarly, when the widow of Phineas had a son she named him Ichabod because she had lost her husband and her father-in-law, and the ark of God had been captured by the Philistines – Ichabod, meaning the glory is departed. Washington Irving cleverly hitchhikes on this name in Ichabod Crane, the hapless schoolteacher in his Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

Well, if each word belonged exclusively to a single person the word conscientious would be Ruth’s alone. You never saw a person half so conscientious, not even the boy with his finger in the dyke. Had Ruth been involved she would not just plug the hole, she would have built a new dyke and go about it with a shovel in each hand and a pickax in the other, and send the kid home to get some sleep. God made the world in 6 days and rested on the seventh. If Ruth had the task she would have worked the entire 7 days and done a better job. She would be a First Day Adventist.

Speaking of kids, the way Ruth handles babies is pure religion! I have seen her enter a room where there are two frantic young mothers and two squalling infants—pandemonium and tumult. She takes the loudest case; dries it at one end or wets it at another; soothes it down with some kind of animal magnetism; gives it something to distract it; and turns her attention to the other. Reduces tumult to one-mult to no-mult in a matter of minutes. She had five kids of her own and tried to adopt a sixth.

Reminds me of a lunch table conversation in the office in New York a few years after Alan, our number 5, was born. My table mates were teasing me asking if it wasn’t about time I had number 6. I told them I decided to defer that for a while, as there was an item in the paper stating that every 6th child born in NY was a PuertoRican. I had no objections to PuertoRican's but it might appear odd having a dark complexioned kid running around with my 5 blonde’s.

I have been around for some 25,000 sunrises. I have not actually seen all 25,000, but I watched a good many, and every one gave me a special feeling of exhilaration. No wonder so many peoples made the sun their god, as far back as the Egyptian god Ra, and probably even before. Similarly I have been on hand for more than 15,000 of Ruth’s breakfasts; she has never served a poor one yet. She is always such a pleasant riser; it is a fine thing to start the day laughing! Breakfast has always been such a delightful occasion I have long maintained we should eat it by candlelight.

I am reminded of an epitaph on a Roman tomb of about 23 B.C. I came across it in Jack Lindsay’s The Ancient World—Manners and Morals. Beautiful!

Friend, I have not much to say, stop and read it.

This tomb, which is not beautiful, is for a beautiful woman. Her parents gave her the name of Claudia. With her heart she loved her husband. She bore two sons, one of whom she left on earth, the other below it She was pleasant to talk with and she walked with grace. She kept the house and worked with wool.

That is all. You may pass on.
With her effulgent complexion I am always reminded of the princess in The Arabian Nights who “was bright of blee an glad of thee.”

Ruth was most particularly wonderful with her parents; not in a Shirley Temple sort of way—she would have my scalp if I so much as hinted she resembled Shirley Temple—but in her own Ruth Ferris Thompson manner. Ma Ferris treated her four children as though she herself were four different characters. The other 3 kids she deferred to in 3 different routines; Ruth she bastardized. Ma Ferris was a good woman and an unusual one but she never gave Ruth an even break. For example she would purposely embarrass her, which also embarrassed me. I am not here to put down or to build up my mother-in-law—Ruth can polish her own smoother pebbles—but you can take it from me she was rough on Ruth.

For the purposes of my discussion the details are trivial but you can take it as gospel that her mother did not treat Ruth well, particularly when measured against her treatment of her three other children. Now to my point. When mother could no longer take care of herself in her declining years Ruth made every possible effort to keep her out of a nursing home—and I cooperated. Most touching. It made me proud of being a member of the human race.

There were some parallels, and some perpendiculars, in the case of her father. He always treated Ruth with respect, if that is the proper term for the reasonable treatment of a daughter. When in turn he was no longer able to take care of himself she took care of him right in what had been his own house that he loved so dearly, and she made his last years as comfortable and enjoyable as feasible. This was no simple task. At bat twice; two home runs!

For just one facet of her kindnesses I here list a few of the efforts she made to alleviate her father’s situation when his eyesight deteriorated:

She bought him a special typewriter with extra large type.
She brought special large-type books such as Du Maurier’s Rebecka.
She subscribed to a special large-type edition of The NY Times.
She got him a pocket watch with large numerals.
She got a large clock and a large thermometer for him.
She made an appointment with an eye doctor who specialized in deteriorating eyesight, some 100 miles away.

There were undoubtedly others—and these were only ways to ease his difficulties with seeing and are listed only to indicate an attitude, her efforts to make him as comfortable as possible. You would think she was investing time and effort in a young child to make his remaining eighty years wonderful! Everyone should have a daughter like that.
When something needs to be done, Ruth steps into the breach. Around the house for instance she does much work ordinarily considered mans duties. This week she applied seal to the tiles in our two patios. The problem here lies in her standards being so much higher than mine that she cannot wait until I get around to doing the job—if ever. You have to admire her for that—although I do not appear so good. I wish I had been a farmer; I would have been able to retire rich at age 55 on her efforts alone.
I lack the time, no less the paper, to record her very fine attributes but shall here mention one incident that made an indelible impression on me. When we traveled across the continent in 1957 we stopped off to have a look at the Grand Canyon and I decided to make the trip down the canyon on a mule—and Ruth decided to come along! That may sound simple enough until you see the wall of the canyon, practically perpendicular with a winding trail cut in its sidelike cutting a path in the side of the Empire State Building; and the path is only about a mule and a half wide so you are continually looking over the side of the mule down into eternity. The trail we took is called The Bright Angel Trail. I suppose because one slip and you immediately become a bright angel. Ruth made the whole days trip down and back and in freezing weather at that so that even the snow at the top rim was solid and slippery like ice. She rode that mule down the Bright Angel Trail even though she might become a bright angel herself at any minute.
She likes cats. I am always amazed at how many people hate cats. Some because they like birds and feel they must dislike cats for that reason. It is true that cats kill birds---when they get the chance---but I cannot believe they are any real threat to the bird population, which must basically depend upon the availability of food.

Some people dislike cats because they like dogs. They feel they must make a dogmatic choice between them, if you will except the expression—like feeling all Republicans are fools if you happen to prefer Democrats; or Los Angeles is no good if you prefer San Francisco. Anyway, I like people who like cats. As an aside, I also like those that like dogs and birds. I feel no compulsion to divide the world into those who like dogs and those who like cats. I see no reason why you cant like both.

She also likes tin boxed for storing things in, like cookies. I, too, like tin boxes, although I cannot ordinarily long store cookies therein.

Ruth has another characteristic I have to mention, not just to laud her but also to recommend this particular virtue to others. It is easy to describe by citing an example: She had a falling out with a friend I’ll call Hollyhock, and hen disliked her. Another friend  mentioned how stupid Hollyhock was and Ruth immediately came to her defense; said she was exceptionally bright, and talented., and generous ; perhaps more. Ruth was not going to allow Hollyhock to be maligned merely because she disliked her. I mention this, because this is such an easy virtue to acquire, involving simple honesty, yet so few possess it. In politics, for instance, you rarely hear someone admitting an opponent has a single sound idea in his head. Afterthought: Ruth does not always practice this virtue when the conversation turns to Reagan. I feel bound to mention this exception as a matter of simple honesty.

I am impelled to mention one other virtue so as to indicate I am evenhanded. Whatever she does she does to the maximum of her ability. I once mentioned to her I considered her an over achiever and she chopped me up into little pieces. I thought I was paying her a compliment but she treated it as a terrible insult, and I can understand why she did so. She took it to mean she did pretty well considering her lack of ability; and no amount of explanation or apology would placate her. Well, you win a few and you lose a few. Confidentially, I still think she is an over achiever and I still feel that is a compliment.

Matter of fact, she tells me I am an under-achiever and I think she is correct and I do not believe she intended it as a compliment judging by her attitude at the time. Personally, I would rather be an over, than an under-achiever; I just lack her continuing interest and attention.
Robert Louis Stevenson….TO MY WIFE
Steel-true and blade-straight
The great artificer made my mate.


Andrew Marvell...TO HIS COY MISTRESS

but at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near.

Although Mother's journal provided the initial impulse for my writing these notes I abandoned any attempt at following her day-by-day accounts, principally because I got such a late start. Whereas she began at age 25 and went on writing for 60 years I am starting at age 74 and can look forward to only a minor fraction of such a span of time. Her method was best for her; mine for me. However as I allow myself considerably more latitude in format I shall not completely avoid an occasional daily item of current interest. Here is one in Mother's mode.

Wednesday 18 April 1984. 

Almost midnight. Mother's birthday. She would have been exactly one hundred years old today--an age she frequently vowed to attain. She made 85 and nine months which is not too too bad at that. Her eyes went bad and she could no longer read or write, her two chief pleasures, so she figured the game was no longer worth the candle and the candle could not light the game. I don't blame her one bit.

Laurel and Paisley here for Easter holidays; Lynn driving down Friday for the weekend and to pick them up. Exceptionally bright and most pleasant kids, and Mother would have been happy to have known them.

A while ago Paisley wandered into the living room to state she was having difficulty getting to sleep and requesting a banana, her usual home remedy for insomnia. 

ME: Certainly. I'll get you one. Oops! Sorry. Nothing here but green ones.

PAISLEY: I always eat green bananas.

You can't beat a smart kid on details.


I am so enchanted by Mother's journal my mind keeps reverting to it. There should be at least one such record in the family each generation and here is a contribution for my generation. Mother's so intrigues me I shall imitate parts of its format even if I despair of simulating its intensity and grace of expression. Mother read exhaustively, volume after volume after volume and with it all furnished in her journal ideas about what she read -- good and bad; likes and dislikes--so I shall here touch upon a few aspects of her writing. 

Mother rarely repeated herself, or repeated anybody else, except, of course, in giving a direct quote. You cannot find a cliche per volume; everything is new minted and sparkling and she never descends to the latest buzz word. No "last but not least" or "At this point in time" or "The bottom line" or "In no way, shape, or form." But with all that there are three phrases she returns to, to describe three recurring feelings and I shall mention them her so as to provide a few gleanings from her voluminous writings.

Religion, a certain source of great comfort to many, was a frequent cause of disquieting change to Mother--for several reasons. Basically three different religious systems ran through her mind like a braid, different ones uppermost at different times, and she could never settle comfortable very long in any one of them. Her family background was Church of England. In her later youth and early adult life she was much impressed by a Charles Voysey, the head of a Theistic Church. Then about four years after their marriage my father converted to Catholicism and Mother followed him into it, perhaps halfheartedly and to please him; or perhaps intellectually or emotionally. Who knows?

Basically Mother was a Theist. She always believed in God but believed in religion only sporadically. She believed there was a god but usually rejected the divinity of Jesus and considered dogma man-made. She enjoyed and respected the Old Testament but did not respond to the New; she frequently considered it on a par with Mother Goose. Also she considered my father a religious nut. Herein I, personally, agree with her but must admit there were many, many who considered him a saint. A question of viewpoint. I hasten to add that I always respected my father and I am much like him — cause and effect? — But we disagreed on religion and resented it's being the most important force in his life--which it most certainly was.  How can a wife compete against religion? Dad's religion, which to him was a spiritual blessing, was to Ma an emotional curse.

Mother was always most certain and serious in her religious belief, as certain as the Pope and as serious as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but she never retained the same certainty very long--a sure sign of an open mind. Each time she recorded her re-conversion to Catholicism - Roman Catholic, she called it--she would end her report with, "Lord, I believe; help mine unbelief." A one point she mentions her favorite saint, Jane Frances De Chantal, as having used the expression but otherwise never alludes to its author. Actually it comes from the Bible, the Ninth Chapter of Mark, and was spoken by the man who had asked the disciples to cast out the dumb spirit from his son, but they lacked the faith to do so. It is most likely Mother knew the Biblical origin and merely supposed everyone else would likewise recognize it.

In any case, Mother would later revert to Church of England or Theism or each in turn and still later "return to Rome" with ever stronger conviction and then would come, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief."

To her compositional credit Mother did not use this expression as a cliche but more as a prayer, and prayers are by their nature, like the Pledge of Allegiance, repetitious. She was asking for help to reinforce her new found faith, like the father in Mark's Ninth Chapter.

Later when she lost the faith she would end her recording with a self-reproach. "Unstable as water, thou shalt not prevail." Here, again, she did not mention the biblical origin of the quote -- Chapter 49 of Genesis where Jacob on his deathbed is putting a curse on Reuben his oldest son for having slept with his, Jacob's concubine. Here it is doubtful if Mother thought of the source as, although the words fit her situation, the sense certainly did not. (Interpolation several months later after reading some dozen more volumes of Mother's journal--a quote from the journal for August 19, 1958,  "Remembering one of the texts which has always applied to me: the judgement on Reuben: Unstable as water thou shalt not prevail.")

Come to think of it there was another expression, not of Biblical origin, Mother used as solace when things did not go as she thought they should, "There ain't no justice." In this case, however, she always credited me with being the author. I would not want to state no one made that remark before I did but I do know that thought partly reconciled me to any number of inequities at least to the extent of providing the feeling that the present quality of justice was not too much worse than its general manifestation. As far back as I can remember I had an over-emphasized sense of justice and like so many others it always pained me when justice was not done, most particularly when I felt better justice would have produced a more favorable result for my particular cause.




July 5, 1961, (regarding qualms about a young girl about to enter a convent) However I cannot do anything about Teresa Button. She will have to dree her own weird, like the rest of us. 

Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for the brethren to dwell together in unity! PSALM 133

My dictionary does not state so but it is clear to me civilization starts with cooperation. Civilization is cooperation and cooperation is civilization. Civilization is merely regarding your neighbor as part of your extended family. Cro-Magnon Man goes hunting while Cro-Magnon woman minds C.M. Man, Jr. Cro-Magnon Man and Cro-Magnon Brother team up with Cro-Magnon Neighbors to hunt Cro-Magnon antelope and defend against Cro-Magnon saber-toothed tiger; and thus starts civilization. 

My brother Eddie used to bully me just to break the monotony, to break his monotony; I would sooner have had the monotony. I recall in particular one special form of his deviltry. He would stand me in front of him and issue specific instructions to the effect that under no circumstances was I to do what he commanded. He would then order me to leave the room and I , naturally, would remain in place. He would then issue increasingly stern orders for me to depart, shouting louder and louder and making more and more dire threats until I would eventually depart, only to bring down extra wrath for having disobeyed his original stipulation. An early Catch 22, even before the phrase was penned. 

Mother provided no specific defense against these tyrannies but her mere presence inhibited the more outlandish forms. There was no problem when Dad was on the scene; his sense of justice would not have tolerated any such shenanigans. In Mother's defense it must be stated she had better ways to spend her time and found it easier to deputize Eddie to keep things under control than to do so herself.

To borrow a north country phrase that I learned from Mother years later, I decided I would just have to dree my own weird, meaning to suffer my own fate. (You get little opportunity to use such a phrase so I might as well sneak it in while the situation is apropos.) I just tried to understand my world to the extant possible and to defend against it to the extent necessary. In the case of Eddie the only defense that occurred to me was to out wait him. A tedious prospect but I perceived no other. I just dreed my weirds on the assumption that was the natural state of humanity. I do not recall even being provoked at Ma for not coming to my defense, probably working on the assumption it was none of her business , which seemed to be a reliable working thesis at the time and squared the facts. 

One early summer day in Tenafly when I was eleven of twelve Eddie was working me over just outside the kitchen door. I have no recollection of the proximate cause of his bully ragging, perhaps he had not enjoyed his breakfast; perhaps he had just finished reading a book and it was too soon before lunch for him to go to the library for another.

Enter Harold coming up from the barn. We had no prearranged plan but Harold apparently took in the situation and sent me somebody language. Facing me, he through his head to his left shoulder pointing toward Eddie and pursed his lips like a chimp holding them out for a peanut and put a question mark on his face. I nodded agreement and we jumped Eddie!

I dropped low and wrapped my arms around his legs and Harold rushed him amidships and down he went with the hollow thud of a keg toppled off a stool; and more surprised than pleased. The rest was just technique. Our combined two hundred odd pounds were more than his one hundred and twenty or so could manage although he did thrash around considerably. It required little time for us to work our way around to lie on top of him and tire him out. As his struggles subsided his bellowing increased with foul language like you never heard before: "I'll break your goddamn necks. Jesus, when I get up I'll knock the crap out of you both. I'll break every bone in your lousy bodies. " Uprising! Revolt! Revolution!

Enter Ma brandishing a bristle broom,armed to drive off a brace of attacking curs. Not to save our goddamn necks or lousy bodies or to keep our crap in us but to order us to let him up. The natural love of the first born. This hooked us right on the traditional horns of the traditional dilemma. We had never before disobeyed Mother but on the other horn we did not relish broken bones or having crap knocked out any faster than normally. Caution or fear, at first prevailed over training and we remained atop the sputtering victim. No punching, no twisting, ; just dead weight.

After a spell his struggles subsided, then his invective. It dawned on him how ridiculous such mighty threats sounded from such a supine position. An impasse. Like Humbert Humbert's first close encounter with Lolita, we had found the whole procedure much easier than we would have considered possible. 

Finally we let him up. Instead of breaking any bones or knocking any crap he went over and stood beside Ma as if to declare: "Us tow against you two," but much abashed realizing another encounter would produce like results. Like the story book bully he thrived on bluster but wilted against sufficient determination. Finally Ma put up her battle broom and we all went off trying to appear as casual as possible. 

That is the way I discovered civilization, the realization that cooperation beats antagonism and is lots more fun. It also straightened out Eddie's thinking considerably and likewise introduced him to civilization. 

Sins Remembered

By its nature all first person writing is self-exposure and runs into the double insurmountable and un-get-underable difficulties of overstatement and understatement. Few of us really know ourselves; few of us want to; and those who do are usually reluctant to unburden themselves of their shortcomings as they feel other people have already exposed them sufficiently. Despite all this I shall take the plunge. 

"He sure likes himself," -- a fitting reproach for those who indicate a too high opinion of us--the braggarts, the swaggerer's, those who attempt to make their five dollar bills appear like twenties but usually succeed in making them look like threes. 

"He sure hates himself," -- a description, except when applied sarcastically, of another class of people, those with low self-esteem.

How can anyone strike a reasonable balance between these two reprimands? You largely cannot; society does it for you, and different societies apply differing standards to different qualities. Some oriental societies will not even allow you to brag about their kids.

In our society if you have thousands and say you have millions you are in deep trouble socially; you are in trouble even if you do have millions and say you have millions. If you have thousands and dress like you have millions, society, at least our society, approves: "He dresses like a million dollars."

On the other hand, a woman who runs a bit to chunkiness is urged to wear vertical stripes to make her appear slimmer; and some who consider themselves too slim wear falsies.

Thus any oral statement of your worth is strictly taboo but statements by inference are practically required, not just in clothes but also in driving the fancier car, buying the twenty dollar wine, showing your vacation pictures. This is called keeping up with the Joneses and is the basic appeal in most product advertising. Ads are designed to create the impression that if you buy their product you are classier than the next fellow. Statements of your worth, even overstatements, are required as long as they are non verbal and may be made by clothing, cosmetics, ostentation, however you wish. Indeed Shaw's play, Pygmalion, and its musical adaptation  My Fair Lady are based solely on the idea that if you speak better than others you can be changed from guttersnipe to royal blood. 

Quaint examples of this are provided by those who cling to titles outside the sphere the title covers: The ex-colonel referred to as Colonel Smith and the holder of a PhD in English Literature who is introduced by his wife at general functions as Doctor Brown to indicate rank above other  guests holding Masters degrees who are not called Master. Bertrand Russell, an English Earl, took a stand on this practice by not allowing his publishers to mention his title in his writings on philosophy and mathematics, allowing his words to stand on their own merits.

In our particular society there are many situations where you are allowed to brag and some where bragging and overstatement are required. Unlimited boasting is allowed, even expected, about recently acquired grandchildren. You never hear a grandmother say anything like, "We spent the weekend with our new granddaughter. She looks like a regular run-of-the-mill child. She has blue eyes but I was sort of hoping for one with brown; and her disposition is about standard. She will smile once in a while if you make a special fuss, and she yawns just like any other six-month-old."

You are required to boast about your country. This is called patriotism and it is practically a constitutional requisite when asking for votes. The boasting is temporarily suspended when describing the terrible mess left by the party of your political opponent. Such bragging is generally extended to include your state and your school of higher learning. In this later case the bragging is more frequently about the athletic prowess than the academic superiority of your institution. This bragging of athletic  superiority is not curtailed as a matter of social mores, as bragging of your wife's good looks might be, and is never omitted due to the lack of interest in your listener. This is known as school spirit  and is particularly virile in Texas and the other forty-nine states. 

This lengthy preamble is my way of letting you know I am going to try to tell you my worst faults as well as I can as I see them and as reported by others without regard to the social habits usually attached to such telling. Some of them are embarrassing to recount but I shall make up for that by boasting of my merits later on. Let's get on to the warts. 

I do not dance.

My handwriting is execrable. When I first heard complaints of my cursive writing I thought that "cursive" was an adjective meaning "curse-able" and in my case it does.

I have a severe disability whose correction would require a major operation by a highly skilled orthopedic surgeon. This involves a defective hinge on my right jaw. This causes me no physical discomfort but produces a clunking sound like knuckle cracking (which my family call "munching") when I chew, to the annoyance of my table mates. I eat too fast. (I sound like a delightful dinner companion!) This clunking in my right jaw is echoed in both knees when I walk. Just why I have it on both sides in the legs but only on one side of the jaw remains one of life's minor medical mysteries. The Great Mechanic just gave me a faulty lubricating system in a few places. 

I sneeze too loud. 

I am a lousy dresser, not by design like a hippy but by unconcern. The Thompson indifference to public opinion. In other words, I am not an aggressively poor dresser but, rather, am not a good dresser. At critical moments when Ruth covers up this shortcoming by a quick inspection to prevent my wearing stripes with checks or mixing plaid slacks with a plaid jacket. Indeed when I went to the office Adele would frequently contribute her good taste; she would disappear from the breakfast table and return with several neckties for me to select from in preference to the one I had previously chosen , perhaps in the dark.I have much to thank her for in my business success.

Another wart -- I am a lousy singer and this is one of my deepest disappointments. I feel singing is wonderful and would give my right arm for ability therein. It would not have to be world class, just passing competence. This is one of those places where inherent ability is of prime importance and I just did not net my share. I try to console myself with considering my fortunate inherited characteristics such as my deep insight into the female mind, a rare gift indeed, but after long reflection would still rather have had moderate singing ability than such perfect insight. 

I do not have enough Christmas spirit. Ruth calls me Scrooge. She does not really mean it quite that bad but still there is much merit in her contention. Left to my own devices I would not buy and dress a tree or string colored lights along the eaves. Nor is DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS one of my favorite songs. On the other hand I am not at all opposed to those with more traditional tastes. That is, I am not anti-Christmas; it is just that I am not gung-ho thereon either. So sue me. I admit the charge and throw myself on the mercy of the court. 

Another example in support of Ruth's contention; I do not send any Christmas cards. Instead I send individual typed letters. Form letters do not convey my form of sentiment and where I have any reasonably acceptable choice I do not conform to a custom I do not support. Another thing, several of my hyper-religious friends insist that Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ and for that reason Christmas cards should celebrate only that event. Scenes of the manger but no Tiny Tim or yule logs. Fair enough for ardent Christian but artfully excluding greetings to or from infidels. 

We cannot all be expected to show identical amounts of enthusiasm for all projects. Nor am I deficient in enthusiasm in all areas. For instance, right now I am most enthusiastic about reducing the federal debt, so much so I would welcome my paying more taxes to do so -- an enthusiasm not shared by most people. Several years ago I was most enthusiastic about Ruth taking care of her ancient father even though doing so took up my time and effort as well as hers. 

My greatest shortcoming, the place I get the worst marks, has been as a father; my major failure. A difficult truth to tell and an embarrassing one, but Mother's journal had embarrassing things to tell and I can see that a journal that would omit such items is a balance sheet that understates the liabilities and cannot pass discriminating auditors. If I admit my worst faults I at least give the impression I was not guilty of rape, murder, or marking the cards. Come to think of it, and this is going to sound mighty smug, I count this as my only major failure. 

True, I have had many, many failures but no others I count of similar substance. (I failed both English and Latin in High School, just for starters. Jimmy once remarked that I crowded one year of Latin into two years.) For instance there have been better sons to their parents, and I could have been a better son had I tried harder, but I feel I got by with fair average marks, all things considered, particularly after weighing my generally lax attitude of tackling things by approximation. My failure as a father has not been by design and contemplation like my Atheism but what makes it the more disheartening is that I have good kids. But, as Mother writes about sad things in her journal, "But there it is."

As an aside, I believe my best roles have been as uncle, brother, and boss. As a partial counterweight to that avuncular brag it must be freely admitted that the person who has held me in lowest esteem over the longest period of time and complained about me the most (including business associates  and bridge partners) is a nephew! One of life's little paradoxes. The other nephews and nieces just lacked his insight. 

Ruth explains my parental shortcomings by noting that my mother was not a naturally maternal woman and showed me little love. Although I have to agree with Ruth's statement of the facts I am not so sure they lead to her conclusion. That is, I have to freely admit, howbeit reluctantly, that Ruth is correct in that Mother was not maternal and I was far from being her favorite son. Are the Thompson boys entitled to the most maternal mother on the block? Just because Benjamin was the favorite son of Jacob should Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Zebulon and the other six go into the mopes? (Reuben at least got a sandwich named after him!) Besides, suppose I had been Mother's favorite, that would merely have demoted Eddie or Harold or someone else to my position of unfavorite and only switched things around without improving the net result overall. Actually I was quite content with my mother and much preferred her to Ruth Eason, Mary Smith, Elsie Palmenberg or any other I saw on the block-maternal or non-maternal  favorite or non favorite. I did at the time; I still do. My father too. Call me smug. 

Much fuss is made in magazine articles and the like for the desirability of mothers lavishing love and affection upon their offspring; but without belittling their characteristic, I feel there are other attributes one can gain from a parent and on balance I am much content with Ruby Alice Thompson in that role. 

As a boy I realized Mother was far from being storybook maternal; but I never resented this in her; that was the way she was, the way she came from the shop, just as she was mercurial, changeable, and unpredictable. I certainly was not in the habit of passing harsh judgement on her nor do I recall ever wishing I had a different mother, although I frequently thought how much I preferred her (and my father) to other parents I knew. They were strong intellectuals and intellectually stimulating. True, I met other intellectuals but never such a pronounced intellectual couple; and their conversation I found most stimulating. Also it never occurred to me I was entitled to the best parents on all scores, any more than we were entitled to the biggest house or the best kept lawn in town. Perhaps a shiftless attitude, but that was it. Still is. 

To keep the record in balance, and lest you feel I might be a professional Mama's boy, I must add two things I did not appreciate about Mother. For one, I found her justice capricious and this the more galling as I had an over developed sense of justice. She always umpired in favor of Eddie against me and gave me little or no protection against his tyranny. Looking back at the situation there is much to be said for Mother's position.  Seven active sons were just too much for her and it was easier to deputize Eddie, the oldest, to maintain order with imperfect justice than to do it herself with any attempt thereat. Harold explains the situation graphically (although in terms of Dad): Dad included Eddie as his deputy… whereas we were in Operations he was Staff -- supervisor--morale officer — while we carried pails and feed he flicked only a vocal swagger stick to keep us on our toes and gave us an occasional push or poke or shove or slap. 

The other thing I did not fully appreciate was Ma's occasional impetuous back of the hand. Again in her posthumous defense it must be said I was a tempestuous kid among many others and undoubtedly deserved more backhands than I received. I was more sinning than sinned against; still am. Still, the occasional undeserved backhand rankled at the time. 

Now that we have declared open season on Mother I might as well unburden myself of one more item that used to give me no small annoyance. Every so often, principally with the change in seasons, when I arrived home from school Ma would dragoon me to move the bedroom furniture around. We always lived in a large house, all the Thompson's love large houses, and typically she would decide to interchange her large bedroom with another slightly larger, or smaller, or with more sunlight, or with a window seat, or with better cross-ventilation, or, or, or. When the new arrangement had been put to rights and I awaited dismissal to get onto the important things of the day, Ma would hold me captive while surveying the situation with that look of bemusement the Queen of Diamonds uses in contemplating her hand held flower. This was frequently followed by orders to  move the bed from that wall to this and to remove one of the bookcases. Not infrequently the whole situation would be reversed the next day back to the status quo ante. 

Sounds like Rough-On-Mother Day; but dear is Mother, but dearer still is truth. 

Thinking back on all these annoyances I reach the conclusion they represent not so much a high level of annoyance in Ma as an abundance of annoy-ability in John. A frequent situation in personal relationships. I see it often. 

Early in this chapter I mentioned the musical play My Fair Lady and that reminds me of a wonderful gesture I cannot allow to pass unrecorded.

When they were in High School Jackie  Bonnie, and Gary and also Bob Thompson used to spend their summer vacation working for The Fresh Air Fund, a charitable organization that sent city kids to the country for a few weeks. (Runs through my mind Alan also did this for a spell, and perhaps Adele.) At that time My Fair Lady was all the rage and it was well — nigh impossible to obtain tickets to see it. However each morning a few tickets for that evenings performance would be put on sale for standing-room. The kids would stay in New York City for the evening to see a move and then stand in line at the box office waiting for it to open in the morning to seek these standing-room tickets. They enjoyed the show so much they did this several times. 

Then they wanted to stand on line all night to get tickets for me and Ruth. A truly magnanimous offer and a most touching gesture. Much as we wanted to see the show we declined the offer with thanks feeling we could not in conscience allow them to make such a sacrifice for our pleasure particularly since tickets would eventually become available on a regular basis. 

I am still impressed! Thankful. Good kids!


Let us now praise famous men and our fathers in their generations. ECCLESIASTICS     

      XL IV, 1

      Edward Thompson (1879-1970) -- GENEALOGY NOTES WRITTEN ABOUT 1964: I was aware of comments on THE THOMPSON'S, indicating that we were regarded as something out of the ordinary. It seemed to consist in an independence in ideas and conduct, marked by an indifference to public opinion. This may be a correct diagnosis but it will serve. 

When a boy or a youth speaks of his family he refers to his parents and his brothers and sisters. When a grown man speaks of his family he is usually talking about his wife and children. I am a bridge between two very, very different families although they are of necessity alike in some ways.

I often thought there should be different words to distinguish between these two families such as some languages have different words to distinguish between your father's sister, your mother's sister, and the wife of your father's or mother's brother -- all of whom are called Aunt in English. I'll make a start at such terminology by here referring to my original grouping as my FAMILY in capital letters and my current one as my family (in lower case) unless the context makes everything clear. 

Although I am a grown man, right now I wish to tell about my original FAMILY, my parents and brothers, and shall largely leave until later giving details about my current family. I want to give my impressions of my FAMILY so my grandchildren and their grandchildren can detect what THOMPSON characteristics they discern in their own families, for better or worse. 

My parents were alike in many, many ways and diametrically opposite in a few others. Both were London born and London bred; both of English stock as far as anyone knew except for Mother's tinge of Irish. Her maternal grandfather, Joe Beates, was a dashing Irishman and Pattern Man in Lord Enniskillen's Own regiment. That "Pattern Man" meant that he was the model soldier in the regiment and as such was granted extra pay and privileges. His boots were always shined, his quarters most orderly. These characteristics show up here and there in later generations. They missed me but showed up with increased recrudescence in Gary. 

Both of my parents were highly intelligent and imaginative and both were excellent conversationalists. Both extremely hospitable. Although there were nine in the immediate FAMILY they frequently had  long term house guests and almost always hosted a squad of visitors for Sunday dinner. 

Two cases are so remarkable they are worn separate mention. Lord North, about whom there will be more anon, ate at the Thompson table something in excess of 2500 times and Margaret something over 1900 times. This includes not just at my parents' table but also at mine and later Ruth's. Except for Jimmy, none of us ever ate at Lord North's and Jimmie's total would be in the neighbor hood of 50 times. None of this is by way of complaint (I could protect myself.) But just to indicate the sheer volume of the Thompson hospitality. 

Father was of average height, fair, blue-eyed, trim, personable. Highly energetic both physically and mentally and this carried over into his hobbies: gardening, swimming, ping-pong, bridge, poker, tennis as a young man, travel. So if your wife complains that you spend  too much time playing games explain to her you inherited it from Ted Thompson. Chili and Sket inherited his love of  the soil and Jimmie his penchant for travel, but I never received the first and lost the second in later life. Orderly, analytical, original. Musical. Unflappable. Happy. Skeptical. Reliable. Contentious. Religious. Very religious.

Mother also was fair and blue-eyed. A titian redhead who retained much of her natural hair color well into her later years. Even her name fitted her --  a real ruby red Rubens. Tall. Her father, Charles Henry Side, was very tall and slim, Norman-shaped, so if you or any of your off spring are tall and angular you owe it to those two or to Joe Beates, the Irish Dragoon -- unless, of course, there are tall genes on the other, non-Thompson, side of your inheritance. As a young woman Mother had been slim but was always heavy as far back as I remember. Voluble. A great reader and a copious writer. She wrote to her mother every week for decades and to all seven of her children all her life as often as they answered her. Also to her sisters and her daughters-in-law. Offer thanks to Ruby Alice if you enjoy a flair for writing, if you prefer the pen to sword. 

One Saturday about a month before Christmas when I was eleven years old I first realized how fine a conversationalist Mother was. I was at the large kitchen table chopping citron helping her prepare the Christmas pudding. I asked her why it was made so ling in advance and why it was always referred to as THE Christmas pudding even though she had mad some half dozen. (I was a bear cat at asking questions and must have been an eternal nuisance.) Mother explained that the pudding was made so long in advance because it improved with age. Indeed we ate Plum pudding New Year's Day and thereafter. She explained that THE Christmas pudding sounded more important than Christmas puddings and was referred partly a matter of custom and she offered several other examples such as getting a hair cut rather than getting hairs cuts or buying a two-cent apple rather than a two-cents apple. 

            Then she went further in the style of a true conversationalist: If you served  a verbal ball into her court she would not only return it but would additionally serve another into your court. She told me that the following day, Sunday, was called stir-up Sunday. In the church calendar it was the last Sunday after Pentecost, that is the last Sunday before Advent (Advent being the four weeks before Christmas). In the church service for that Sunday the collect began. "Stir Up" , we beseech thee, O Lord, the wills of thy faithful people..and the housewives and kids called it Stir-Up Sunday because that was the time to start to stir up the Christmas pudding. Ever since, I cannot eat Plum pudding , or anything with Citron, without thinking of mother  and Stir Up Sunday. (Gives me an idea fro a soda fountain delight: a scoop of ice cream sprinkled with citron and called a Stir Up Sundae, to be later corrupted by the horsey set into "Stir-Up Sundae."

                 Mother talked to you just as though your were a real live person and had interesting details to add to your knowledge and delightful insights to arouse your thinking. 
She had a great love for the language and made continuing efforts to protect it from violation. One incident is typical and made a lasting impression on me. Before I was old enough to go to school, less than 5 years old, she would take me on her jaunts to the public library, undoubtedly to the delight of the family maid left behind to mind Jimmie and Chili. Early on, when I asked to go along to the "lie-berry", she paused to explain it was a "line-brie" and I have called it that ever since! True, she never bothered to watch Harold play on the high school football team in the modern manner but I do not believe she made a bad allocation of her time at that, and I surmise Harold feels much the same. 
                 Adele reminds me of Mother and Gary reminds me of Father, more than any of the rest of us do, more than the original 7 sons or any of the other grandchildren. Beth looks a lot like Mother particularly in coloration but Adele is a better echo overall. It is remarkable that all the progeny of my parents the 2 most like them (at least in my impression) are both in my family although all 6 of the other sons had children and grandchildren. Of the 7 sons Eddie resembled Mother; the other 6 took after Father. I do not know which one of them resembled him the most and shall try to get my brothers ideas thereon. (Ruth votes for Harold.) In my view no one of them counterfeited him as well as Gary does despite the fact we each carry half his genes but Gary, only a quarter. 
                The quintessential Thompson characteristic, independence in ideas and conduct, marked by an indifference  to public opinion , Alan inherited in rare abundance. He even improved upon it. 
                 The 7 sons were surprisingly similar among themselves, much more so than other families, with Eddie being the occasional odd-man-out.
                 As an aside , this is in marked contrast to my present, newer family where all five kids are decidedly different in many ways, maybe in most ways. They all have blue eyes but after that has been said id is hard to think of anything else. Ruth explains this by saying they had 5 different fathers; and after all their dissimilarities they might just as well have had. 

Background: My parents were both highly intelligent extremely intellectual  personalities. That is not as tautological a statement as it might at first sound. Although there is a marked correlation between intelligence (an ability) and intellectuality (an outlook) I have known any number of people (and so have you) who are intelligent with out having an intellectual outlook and likewise a number, a greater number, who are intellectual without begin highly intelligent. Ma and Dad had both in fine balance, in rare abundance. (This was part of the problem. Strike 1.)

My parents were 2 entirely different sorts of simian, a root cause of many marital difficulties, of many other personal problems for that matter, including those between  mother and daughter, father and son, etc. They were not necessarily opposites but decidedly different; different as a sheep dog and a hummingbird. More on this later. (Strike 2).


       1933 on Fire Island: Bill Berry top left. John Thompson top right. Beau Demarest bottom right.   Chili Thompson maybe lower left.

 The Houser Hotel is still there I believe. 

Margie Demarest. Married at some point to Beau Demarest. Much later was remarried to Charles Thompson. I don't know who the guy is but he looks like a Thompson.





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