She was living out West then, and I went on to visit her.
I hadn't seen my mother in a year or so. And when I got there she knew
my face; knew I was married; knew I had a family, and that I was living
with them. But she couldn't, for the life of her, tell my name or who I
was. So I told her I was her boy.
"But you don't live with me," she said.
"No," said I, "I'm living in Rochester."
"What are you doing there?"
"Going to school."
"Large school?"
"Very large."
"All boys?"
"All boys."
"And how do you stand?" said my mother.
"I'm the best boy in that school," I answered.
"Well," said my mother, with a return of her old fire, "I'd like to know
what the other boys are like."
Now, one point in this story is the fact that my mother's mind went back
to my school days, and remembered my little youthful self-prejudice when
she'd forgotten everything else about me.
The other point is the moral. There's one there that you will find if
you search for it.
Now, here's something else I remember. It's about the first time I ever
stole a watermelon. "Stole" is a strong word.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236