From the Improvement Era, December 1933 –

Dear Dot

By Estelle Webb Thomas

North Eastman,
December 15.

Miss Dorothy Bellair,
Centrapolis, O.,

Dear Dot:

I am writing this hurriedly to decline your kind invitation for the holidays, and you must know without me telling you how much I hate to do it.

You always have such wonderful times — and then with Paul practically mine for the asking (he was to do that, of course) it’s rather hard to turn him over to the arts and wiles of Sue Ryan for a week, and holiday week at that! Because for all Paul’s so terribly attractive I hardly think constancy is one of his outstanding virtues, do you? You might just as well wrap him in holly paper, tie a red ribbon on him and present him to Sue, with my compliments on Christmas morning. For I’ve got a feeling its practically all over but the showers now. You know how psychic I am.

And I always did hanker to be proposed to under the mistletoe, in the soft glow from the yule log, while the resinous fragrance of the Christmas tree filled the air! Oh, well, cough medicine smells piney, too, and that’s what will probably perfume my Christmas Eve. At any rate, Donald, Jr., has a decided tendency to croup!

And now you will want to know what I am doing in North Eastman raving about croup instead of accepting an invitation to a perfectly galumptious house party to which Paul Rockwell is also invited.

Well, it’s just one of those things that happen to me. I never set my heart on anything but someone has to throw a monkey wrench right into the middle of my plans. This time it’s Donald’s parents.

A very fine old couple, too, but terribly lacking in judgment. The idea of picking Christmas for a wedding day! As if there isn’t enough going on at Christmas time without crowding in a wedding! Inconsiderate, I call it. It may simply mean that I never have a wedding day! For it’s Paul or nobody with me, you know I’m that faithful type — simply a one-man woman!

And by the way, when you get my announcement it’ll be dated June 1st. I’m not going to spoil anybody’s Christmas vacation fifty or a hundred years from now like this dear old pair has done with their celebration!

You see, it’s their golden wedding this time and the family are gathering in from far and near and naturally Donald and Kate want to go. And that would be perfectly grand if they could only take the children.

But what do you suppose? The little pests have gone and got themselves exposed to the mumps and Kate is afraid to take them — they might swell up right at the party and expose all the precious little cousins!

Of course, she said she’d stay at home and let Donald go, but the aged bride and groom wouldn’t hear of that! Said it would simply spoil the party if Katie wasn’t there. It’s simply abnormal to think as much of an in-law as those people do of Kate! Well, anyway, there was a grand family pow-wow and in the end it was decided to send for dear little sister Polly and throw her to the wolves, as usual. Kate could not possibly trust those precious youngsters with anyone less, except, perhaps a registered nurse, and that was out of the financial question.

Of course, they supposed I was coming home for the holidays as usual, and I only needed to have mentioned your house party and Kate would have died at her post rather than have me miss it — but the poor thing never sticks her nose out of the door unless on duty bound and I could see this golden wedding was her idea of one grand spree, so I nobly stepped into the breach and let her off for a week’s dissipation.

The one gleam in the gloom is that I’m to buy the presents for a list of relatives that Kate hasn’t had time to fix up, and I simply love to shop for Christmas things! And then fixing the. tree and hanging up the stockings and everything would be fun if it wasn’t for thinking about Sue ogling Paul in that perfectly disgusting way she has! Oh, well, I always was a human sacrifice and always expect to be! I only hope my heroism will be fully appreciated sometime — even if it’s after I’m gone.

So goodbye! I’ll forgive you for inviting Sue, dear! You couldn’t know I would not be there to fight for my rights.

On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined! Don’t waste one holiday thought on poor

Martyred
Polly.

P. S. — Donald assures me that the mumps are simply nothing to worry about. (Then why all this solicitude for the cousins?) And Kate says she is certain (almost) that she and I had them when I was a mere baby. So don’t let my peril cast too deep a gloom over the festivities.

P. Parrish.

North Eastman,
December 20,

Dear Dot:

The fifth day is now drawing to a close without a mump on the horizon. I’m beginning to think that the whole thing was a plot of Donald’s and Kate’s to cast off the shackles of parenthood and step out a bit. And out of the generosity of my heart I told them they might as well make it two weeks while they were about it and pay a visit to Great-aunt Katherine, who may mention Kate in her will if all goes well.

Well, I may as well be the goat as one of the kids — as the saying goes — and the kids aren’t so bad at that, while we’re on the subject. Hal, the twelve-year-old, is almost human, and the others show gleams of human intelligence at times. I could actually love the baby if the fat little beggar wasn’t named Paul, and that reminds me of what he’s doing me out of.

Did I mention that I was looking forward with pleasure to that shopping spree? Har! Listen, dearie, never take on a job of Christmas shopping for your relative’s relatives. Especially during a Big National Depression! Dot, I’m a changed woman since that day! The golden hair has turned to silver gray, and I walk with faltering step, and slow.

But here are the ghastly details. There were ten of these relations, see? That is, ten were written down on the paper. That didn’t count all the waifs and strays rung in by the children after Donald and Kate were safely away. And Kate handed me a new ten dollar bill to lavish on them.

“One dollar a piece is all I can spend on them,” says she firmly. “They’re not the important ones,” says she. “But say,” she adds, as she hurries away, “I owe the butter and egg woman fifty cents, and fifteen cents to the boy who brings the hot tamales, pay them out of that, too!”

When all was quiet on the western front, I sat down to see where I stood. A little subtracting (I’m pretty good at subtraction) showed a balance of nine dollars, 35 cents, clear of debt. But when it came to stretching this into one dollar apiece for ten people, I had to call Hal. I never was any good at higher mathematics, as you may recall.

Hal read over the list as a preliminary to the deep figgering and laid it down with every freckle glowing with honest indignation. “Mother has left out Skinney!” he shouted. “She’s told me she’d count him in, and I haven’t got a thing for him!”

So we added Skinney, and on second thought, Hal decided he positively must give Chump some little thing, because Chump had given him two dozen marbles last year, and though most of them were chipped, would expect a return gift.

Katherine and Maud now horned in with urgent requests that their girl friends be not forgotten, and Donald Jr., who can bay like a bloodhound on occasion, almost brought the Fire Department with his noise before we consented to add little Freddie Bird and his Sunday School teacher. Miss Jensen, to the list.

I gave the baby a heart-felt kiss — he can’t talk plain enough to be understood, and his social contacts are rather limited, besides.

The worst of it was that while the list was growing so rapidly, the sinking fund was actually sinking. The tamale boy, when he came to collect, insisted politely, but firmly, that Kate owed him twenty-five instead of fifteen cents. As he pretended not to understand a word I said when I tried to argue, just showed every one of a very fine set of teeth in his dark head and repeated endlessly, “Twenny-fi’ cen’ lady, twenny-fii’ cen’,” there was nothing to do but give it to him and go at our complicated problem in division again, Hal had just announced that we could spend sixty-one and two-thirds cents on each victim, if he counted Chump out and gave him his slightly damaged last year’s baseball mitt, when Katherine (what a fiendish mem- ory that child has!) thought of Uncle Orson and Aunt Tildy, who always send a box of apples and a fruit cake, and always get a box from Kate.

Well, I might have taken some of the household money, but I had planned a real celebration for the children and so, noble soul that I am, I saw there was nothing for it but to sacrifice the money I’d saved to get a swell bill- fold for Paul — the breaks again for Sue!

While Paul’s name is before the house — I loved the way he didn’t offer to miss the party because I had to. Just “too bad, you have to miss the fun, Polly ! Better luck next time, etc., etc.” Nothing about “I’d rather have the mumps with you than all the parties in the world with Sue!” He’s a selfish brute, but Boy, that profile! I suppose he feared for his beauty if the mumps do attack us — which I ain’t a-worryin’ none.

On second thought I’ll spare you the details of the shopping trip, except to mention that we lost little Paul and after a frenzied search found him behind the costume jewelry counter, carefully filling his pockets with glittering gems. The girl there gave me several very dirty looks and intimated plainly that she thought I was training the child for a career of crime. Katherine and Donald Jr. had a very loud and embarrassing argument, ending up in physical combat, as to the respective merits of a book about the Bobbsy Twins or a mechanical top for Miss Jensen and there were several other events which brought us into the public eye in an unfavorable light and helped to shatter my once robust nerves.

December 21 — Had a lovely letter from Sue today, in which she fairly gloated, in a sympathetic “way, over the fact that I had dropped out of the race. The minx is being generous to a defeated foe, of course. I haven’t felt subtle enough to answer yet. Also received an anxious volume from Kate, inclosing a million or so instructions, which I intend to ignore. Kate has tried her theories out on these children for twelve years without any noticeable success. I suppose they can survive mine for a couple of weeks.

We hung up the wreaths today, and “deckered up” the house, as Donald Jr. calls it, and I made doughnuts. The doughnuts look fine on the outside, but seem rather more substantial than any I’ve met before. I’m going to try mince pies tomorrow, and maybe plum pudding. I want to take the children’s minds off the doughnuts. The three I ate to test them gave me a strange sinking sensation.

Hoping I will be spared to pursue the thorny path of duty, I remain your loving

Polly.

December 23,

Dear Dot:

Just a note to let you know the worst — though I should be sleeping while my patients sleep. They’ve got ’em ! Every last child! On both sides! The snootiest bunch of swelled heads you ever saw in your life! And cranky! Well, I’m mighty glad I’ve had this experience before taking up the nursing profession for my life work.

I could bear it better if my conscience was clear, but it isn’t. No, it’s burdened with a batch of leaden doughnuts. I mentioned that I made some didn’t I? And that they weren’t at all like the cook book said they’d be? At that, they were elegant compared to the mince pies. I hope I know how to admit failure, and I’ll frankly confess those pies weren’t like the ones Mother used to make. I’ve lost interest in the plum pudding. Don’t care if I live out my three score and ten without one plum pudding to my credit. I’m convinced Kate’s cook book must be out of date. Anyway, the recipes don’t turn out anything they’re eating in the best circles now.

But to get back to the scene of the crime. I had finished my baking and put the incriminating results away in the pantry and was upstairs wrapping packages, when the gang discovered those outrages and proceeded to sample them. Thank goodness, Hal knew better than to let the baby have any! I suspected the truth when none of them but Paul wanted any supper and all went silently off to bed with suspicious willingness. So I investigated and missed an awful lot of my Christmas pastry right off the bat. Well, right then and there, I got a queer feeling way down in the pit of my stomach. (Not the kind the doughnuts caused.) I’m awfully psychic, you know — and tip-toed in to look at my victims. Sure enough, they didn’t look right. All but the baby seemed to me to have a sickly, greenish tinge of countenance, and he was unusually flushed, and tossing his little arms restlessly.

I crept back and wrapped packages and wrote cards for two or three hours, too nervous to go to bed. About eleven o’clock I went into their rooms for another look.

Imagine my feelings. Dot, to find them all burning with fever! I flew to the telephone and gave the number Kate had given me in case I needed the doctor. After a maddening wait a woman’s voice answered peevishly. She had me shout out my story twice — claimed she couldn’t understand the first time, I was so excited — and then informed me coldly that the doctor didn’t go out nights any more. He was too old.

I’m afraid I answered rather pertly that if I’d only known that, I’d have had the children come down with their mumps in the daytime, but it was too late now. My caustic remark was lost, however, because Mrs. Doctor was talking all the time. I just got, ” — maybe he’d go.” “Who’s that?” I asked eagerly . ‘ ‘Why, this fellow I was telling you about! They say he’s a pretty good doctor.” I could hear her sniff over the phone. She doubtless thinks her old sleepyhead is the only doctor worth while. “You know Dr. Martin is out of town,” she added, “or he’d be the one to get.” “What’s this other one’s name?” I gasped, and she snapped that it was West or something, and he was visiting the Dyers, and hung up.

I had to hunt frantically in the directory for the Dyers, There were three of them and of course the last one was it. I wouldn’t have been so flustered if I’d thought it was mumps, pure and simple, but how did I know they were not all dying of acute indigestion?

Yes, the right Dyer said, his cousin, Dr. Weston, was visiting him, but he was at a party. He hated to call him. He never went out on cases like this, anyway. I sort of went to pieces then about the doctors in North Eastman all being afraid of the dark, and must have said a plenty, for friend Dyer changed his mind and called his cousin. I was presently switched to the party and recited my troubles again. I had got it down to quite an interesting monologue by this time, and could feel (some more psychic stuff) that the doctor was really impressed. He promised to come at once and almost at once he was here. He pronounced their malady mumps but said gravely their condition may have been aggravated by something they had eaten. This was evident even to me, for while I had been telephoning, both Maudie and Donald Jr. had demonstrated, unmistakably, that their stomachs were upset. Well, the next ghastly half-hour is better imagined than described, but at last it was over and I was saved from a murderer’s fate.

They all went back to sleep then and though they were feverish and restless didn’t seem in so much pain, but even then Dr. Weston seemed in no hurry to go. Just sat and talked for an hour or so. And he was so sympathetic that before I realized it I had told him everything I knew, practically. If there was anything I forgot I’ll probably tell him next time, because he’s that kind.

But he’s not handsome like Paul, Really has quite an enormous nose. Sort of distinguished, though, only years older than Paul.

By the way, how do matters stand now between Sue and Paul?

Yours wearily,
Polly.

December 27,

Dear Dot:

Excuse this penciled scrawl, also any pessimistic remarks that may creep in, for pal Polly is a suffering woman. Dot — I’ve got them, too! Both sides — and look perfectly hideous! I wouldn’t mind being sick if I could look interesting, but mumps!

The funny thing is, I haven’t had time to get them from these children and must have been ex- posed before. And if that’s what the little Patterson girl had, then Sue is exposed, too! Because we were there together. But believe it or not, I wouldn’t wish the mumps onto even Sue! No, though she’d undoubtedly lose Paul if he saw her looking anything like I look now! Why, Dot, Willie Marnes with the toothache was Miss America compared to me ! And hurt! I know now, these poor children are absolute angels, even Maudie! Just wait till I see Donald. I’ll tell him a thing or two about the mumps being nothing!

One consolation is that the children are getting better. The baby has a very light case and the others aren’t so bad, now. Dr. Weston got us a practical nurse, who is a darling old soul, and makes them think being sick at Christmas time is quite a lark.

I put up the tree in Hal’s and Donald’s room because they were the sickest, and took the little girls and the baby in to see it and get their things on Christmas morning. We had quite a jollification for a while, but somehow I was feeling far from well, myself, and when Dr. Weston came about ten o’clock he broke the dreadful news that I was mumpish too, and sent me off to bed.

And speaking of angels, there he is now. I can hear him talking to the children. But I’m going to add this- — he’s certainly been an angel to us. When it comes to going to a strange town for a visit, and then giving up all the festivities to take care of a houseful of cranky mumpsters, whom one had never even seen before, that shows character. And that’s just what Dr. Alex Weston hasn’t got nothing else but. His face shows it. So much more distinguished than Paul Rockwell’s, I think. Paul’s nose is far too small to denote any character whatever. Sue will have to make all the important decisions in that family. Or whoever Paul marries, I mean.

And how did your Christmas pass off? I was sitting under the mistletoe with a young man at the same time you were, I imagine, but the mistletoe had been tied to the bedpost by Hal the day we decorated, and the young man was rubbing my jaws with liniment instead of kissing me.

The strange thing was I couldn’t keep my mind on all the fun I was missing, but kept wondering if I looked as ridiculous as the children and how long I’d look this way. Oh, yes, the doctor has beautiful teeth and a deeply cleft chin, and here he comes to take my temperature.

Mumpishly yours,
Polly.

December 29.

Dear Dot:

Kate and Donald will be home tonight on the ten-ten. Won’t they be surprised at what they’ll find? For we haven’t said a word about the mumps. They telegraphed greetings on Christmas morning and I sent one back, and have written a card or two, but Dr. Weston said there was no necessity for spoiling their trip. And there wasn’t with him here.

I can’t start to tell you how wonderful he has been. And Dot, he’s quite a person, really. He’s on his way now to a big practice out west and the nurse tells me he is very well known in medical circles, and specializes in some sort of spinal disorders — and is my face red when I think how I insisted he put in his holidays nursing us all through the mumps!

And now. Dot dear, I’ve got to make a confession. It’s surely ungrateful when you say you’ve been doing everything in your power to keep Paul and Sue apart. I hate to think that you practically spent the holidays vamping Paul to keep Sue from getting him away from me, because. Dot — I can’t even remember how Paul looks ! Honest, every time I shut my eyes and try to picture him I see Dr. Weston, instead! And, oh. Dot, that’s a worth-while sight! I really think I’ve outgrown Paul, sort of. I’m beginning to admire the strong rugged type of man — older men, you know. Paul has such a kiddish look, don’t you think? And Dr. Weston’s profile — but I’m not going to rave like Sue does. Only I don’t feel any enmity toward Sue any more. Let her have Paul if she wants him, or let anyone else who admires that type.

Best love,
Polly.

p. s. — I failed to tell you that I’m practically unswelled already, and though I’m delighted to begin to look like something human again, I hate to have the doctor’s pleasant calls come to an end. He told me today that his vacation is over tomorrow, and how he hates to leave North Eastman, and the look he gave me when he said it gave me the strangest sensation — you know how psychic I am — .

Well, darling, Polly wants a cracker, now, and here comes the doctor — not the nurse, mind you — but the distinguished specialist, with a string of letters after his name like the tail to a kite, bringing Polly both soup and crackers! So, bye-bye, dearie, I’ll be seein’ you, and then we’ll tell it all!

Best love to Sue and all the rest.

Polly.

To Miss Dorothy Bellair,
Centrapolis, O.

Mr. and Mrs. Donald McDonald

announce the marriage

of their sister

Polly Anne Parrish

to

Alex Marchmont Weston, M. D.

June First, Nineteen Thirty-one