Katherine: Do you play bridge?
Walton: Yes.
Katherine: Do you play well?
Walton: Yes. Do you play tennis?
Katherine: Yes.
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.
Breath
The Autumn's here.
I'm very
glad
For
subways now
Don't
smell so bad.