Katherine: Do you play bridge?
Katherine: Do you play well?
Walton: Yes. Do you play tennis?
Walton: Do you play well?
I don't know the answer to that one, since I don't think my mother ever played tennis. Anyway, by then they were both hooked. (Mother was the better bridge player, and Scrabble too.)
Okay, it probably never happened, but it gives you an idea what George and my parents were like.
Professor George, as we called him, lived in New York in the 1930s while he got his Ph.D. He later co-authored The New-York Historical Society's Dictionary of Artists in America 1564-1860. My dad was a budget analyst at Macy's then, and my mother was a steno. She typed up some of George's poems in her free time, two on the subject of the seasons.
Spring in History E 10 R
A doctor of philosophy
Should very grave and solemn be;
Should gaze upon a cow or tree
And analyze it carefully;
Should speculate and ruminate
On matters of a lot of weight
On life and death and love and hate
"Le professeur" should cogitate
On matters small and matters great
The doctor should deliberate
But when the breeze is in my hair
And Spring is nearly everywhere,
I question if I'm called to be
A doctor of philosophy.
The Autumn's here.
I'm very glad
For subways now
Don't smell so bad.