Her folks were the grandest old people, but they were so old-fashioned – just when she wanted to impress the new boy, too.

From the Improvement Era, February 1940 –

The Importance of Sandwiches

By Florence Strong

In spite of her most earnest efforts, Rhea could not keep her mind on the lecture. She supposed that the flora and fauna of Borneo were indeed most interesting, as the professor had assured his audience in the beginning of his talk, but instead of the wild animal and plant life of that remote country, visions of Mrs. Harding Marlowe kept dancing through her mind: Mrs. Marlowe sitting at the piano playing and singing what was supposed to be a little French song, but was mostly a series of la, la, la’s, and Mrs. Marlowe surrounded by Roger and Gerald and Bill while she kept them in gales of laughter with her amusing stories – especially Bill. Or was it because it was only Bill that mattered? Rhea decided that perhaps it was.

It must be marvelous, she thought, to live in a lovely home as Janet Marlowe did, all modernistic with striking white backgrounds and startling new furniture effects. It must be rather thrilling, when one’s mother was introduced, to have the boy friends gasp and say, “Go on – stop kidding. You mean your sister, don’t you?”

Until September of the present year it hadn’t been of any particular consequence, but at that time the university had opened for the fall term bringing, among the usual quota of students, Bill Jarvis, who was so totally different, in Rhea’s eyes, that things previously of no importance were tremendously important now – things like a new, blue, dotted veil to match the blue felt hat, and a charming home in which to entertain. For Bill had been promptly adopted by the “crowd” and it was her turn to have them come to her home for refreshments after tonight’s lecture.

There was a little panicky feeling about her heart as the hands on her watch crept nearer to closing time. Not that hers wasn’t a very “comfy,” liveable home, but there were thousands exactly like it in the country, all including an over-stuffed set, an upright piano, a small table, a bookcase and three floor lamps. It was just her luck that the crowd should come to her place right after going to Janet’s inviting home.

She must, she decided, be very gay and charming in order to take the minds of her friends off the deficiencies of her home. It would be grand if she could also be witty. But wit, alas, did not come at one’s call.

The professor finished with the flora and fauna of Borneo, and the audience arose to leave. Outside, the “crowd” gathered together and followed in the wake of Roger’s “Come on, gang, here’s the pavement that leads to the Hunt domicile. I’ve been famished for two hours and I know that Mother Hunt has a stack of something ready for me.”

“Mother Hunt!” thought Rhea, with a slight feeling of resentment. He wouldn’t have dreamed of calling Mrs. Marlowe “Mother,” and the fact that he had known the Hunt family most of his life wouldn’t account for it, either. She knew that if he had met her mother only yesterday it would have been just the same; he would probably have turned up today using the same familiar term.

“I hope she has two stacks, one for you and one for the rest of us,” said Marge Andrews.

“Stacks,” thought Rhea with an inward grown. Nothing could more fittingly describe the man-sized sandwiches that would be burdening the platters on the dining-room table. She wished that she had thought of it earlier and made the sandwiches herself before going to the lecture. Then there might have been dainty little open-faced bits with fancy decorations of olives and chopped parsley, just as clever as Mrs. Marlowe had served. But it was too late this time, and brooding on the matter wouldn’t add to that air of gaiety and charm she had decided to use in abundance; so she held her head high and entered into the careless banter of her guests as they walked along.

Ten-year-old Marvin greeted them at the door – a blow that Rhea hadn’t anticipated. She had supposed that he would be in bed, since it was well past his bedtime.

“Mom said that I could stay up and see the company,” he shouted in his loudest tones. “And I’m going to get some of the eats, too,” he added, all too unnecessarily.

“Then I’d better get a head start on you,” said Roger quickly, “because I’ll bet you carry a first-class appetite around.”

“I’ll say I do,” Marvin agreed with a grin. “Shall we have a race to see who can eat the most sandwiches?”

“Not on your life you don’t,” interposed Gerald. “You two aren’t going to spoil the evening for the rest of us.”

Rhea was glad that her father and mother came in to greet her guests just at that moment, so that the argument about food could be disposed of. She was so glad, in fact, that she almost failed to be resentful that her mother still wore her kitchen apron and that her father was comfortably, but inelegantly, attired in felt house slippers.

All except Bill were well known in the household, and when he was introduced to her father, the latter pumped his hand vigorously and boomed forth, “Mighty glad to meet you, son. Just make yourself right to home.” Even her mother’s greeting was scarcely less hearty.

“They are the grandest folks in the world,” thought Rhea, “but they certainly do lack something in the way of poise,” and in her mind’s eye she again visioned Mrs. Harding Marlowe as she looked when she first slipped a soft, white hand into Bill’s and murmured up to him. “We’re so delighted to have you here.”

She took advantage of the stir created by the introductions to whisper to Marvin, “Your neck isn’t right clean. Go out and wash that spot in front.”

The delicacy of the situation did not intrude upon Marvin, however, for he shouted back, “What the heck! I washed my neck good right before supper.”

“Stand by your guns, my lad,” Roger sang out cheerfully. “One wash is enough for our necks any day in the week.”

Rhea would gladly have done something drastic to both necks under discussion, but instead she said as blandly as possible, “Would you like to sing, or play games?”

“Let’s sing,” said Gerald, “I believe I’m in very good voice tonight.”

“Then I imagine it would be wise to play games,” said Janet, “but let’s take a chance. If he gets going too strong we can always stop him – or can we?”

“No one ever has yet,” supplied Marge, “but we can always try once more.”

“You’ll regret those unkind words,” said Gerald, marching over to the piano. “Come on, Rhea; let’s give them, ‘On the Road to Mandalay.’”

Rhea sat down at the piano while the others gathered around and joined with Gerald in singing the famous old song. She had bought several new popular numbers especially for tonight, but before she could bring them out her mother suggested, “Let’s sing ‘Just a Song at Twilight.’ That always was my favorite.”

“Just a Song at Twilight” was followed by “Swanee River,” and, Rhea was sure, every other old-time song that was ever written. The evening had turned into the dullest that she had ever endured, and she had long since given up all hope of making anything like a favorable impression upon Bill.

At last, they had sung to their heart’s content and Marvin immediately chirped up with, “Can’t we eat now, Mom? I’m nearly starved.”

“Of course we can,” Mrs. Hunt responded quickly. “Nobody should have to sing for his supper any longer than this.” She hurried off to the kitchen to return presently with stacks of the sandwiches whose appearance Rhea had been dreading, pitchers of steaming chocolate, and platters of doughnuts and apples – all very good, very substantial, and hopelessly old-fashioned! It was strange how important sandwiches – or rather, their size – could be.

No one showed the anguish that Rhea herself was experiencing, but, of course, she thought, they were much too polite for that. In fact, Gerald and Marvin greeted the appearance of each item with shouts of approval, and when Roger had taken his first bite, he burst out with, “Whoopee! home-made bread. And I thought that its era was dead and gone.”

“How do you know it’s home-made bread?’ asked Janet skeptically.

“Because we used to have it in the good old days before the Mater went modern on us.”

“They sure are good, Mom,” Marvin agreed. “Can I have another one?”

“Well, that’s four you’ve had already,” his mother reminded him. “How many sandwiches do you think you can hold?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like a chance to find out,” Marvin answered quickly.

“You and me, too,” Roger agreed.

“What in the world was the matter with them?” Rhea asked herself miserably. The boys hadn’t acted like this at the Marlowe home. It was true that they had responded with jesting to Mrs. Marlowe’s sallies, but there hadn’t been this schoolboy abandon and unrestraint.

She was glad when the refreshments had all been eaten, for Marvin consented to go to bed and, at least, she was free from further embarrassment from that source.

They went back to easy chairs in the living room and, almost before she knew it, her father had launched into one of his stories of “when I was a boy.” His experiences as a lad on a western ranch and the poverty and struggles he had encountered there were all very interesting in their family circle, but they were hardly conducive to the gaiety and sociability that she had hoped to create this evening.

She looked about at her guests to see how they were responding and decided that they were only being polite in their interest. Suddenly her mood began to change. Why should they only show a polite interest? Not one of them would ever go through such a school of hard knocks. And, in spite of all his hard work and never having any time to play at being a gentleman of leisure, he had as fine a sense of humor as any one could ask. That story of the mule that kicked the sleigh to pieces, for instance. They were all laughing at that, and it wasn’t pretended interest, either.

She glanced over at her mother. The style of her hair dress hadn’t changed the last twenty years but her face held more real beauty than that of many other women of her age who spent hours of each week in a beauty parlor. She felt a quick contrition for the thoughts that she had entertained earlier in the evening. Her home and her parents might be old-fashioned but they were the dearest ever and if Bill wasn’t attracted by them he could go his own way and it wouldn’t make the least bit of difference to her.

“Well,” her father rose with a scarcely suppressed yawn, “it’s bedtime for working folks, and just about that for you young ones, too, I believe.”

An hour ago, Rhea would have been provoked at her father for sending them home so unceremoniously, but now she was almost glad and she hastened to get their wraps.

“Thanks for the grand old feed,” called Roger in goodbye, “and you can look for me back most any time.” The others echoed his goodbye, although in a somewhat more polite manner, and they were on their way – all except Bill, who lingered behind until the two couples were well up the walk.

He took Mrs. Hunt’s hand in both of his own and said with undoubted sincerity, “You’ll never know how I’ve enjoyed being here tonight. I’ve been sort of knocking around the world with my Dad the last five years and I didn’t know real homes like this one existed any more. May I come again?”

“Well, my dear boy, we’ll just be mighty glad to have you any time,” she answered with a motherly smile.

“Do you agree to that?” Bill asked, turning to Rhea.

“Of course,” she answered with a smile that was far from motherly, and as she watched him go swinging up the walk, she admitted to herself that, after all, it had made quite a difference that Bill hadn’t wanted to go his own way.