Photographic Insert II

At the age of six I dislike this yellow organdy dress because it is scratchy. Mother is ashamed of my socks. We move to Portland shortly after this picture is taken.

Two Halsey Street sisters stand to my left on the day I enter the first grade. I am anxious because one girl is prepared with flowers for the teacher and I am not. Will the teacher like me?

At age seven my Yamhill smile begins to fade. Mother is disappointed because my socks show in this picture, paid for with a free coupon.

In the fourth grade Evelyn, the older girl who played “Rustle of Spring,” and I are outfitted as tin soldiers for the operetta. Our puttees slip and have to be rewound, but we make it through the performance.

Grandpa and Grandma Atlee stand apart in their general merchandise store. I peek into the right of the picture. Mother, who destroyed almost all pictures of herself, removed herself from this one with scissors.

Mother’s determination holds our lives together in this house on Thirty-seventh Street.

When I am in the eighth grade, a friend’s mother suggests taking this picture of me for a Christmas present to Mother, who, instead of being pleased, is angry. She has told me to avoid this friend, whom she considers “common.”