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Show 42 eleven, and Harold when I was fourteen. In between babies I got baby-hungry and that was when I hinted for Mama to have twins, or at least another baby right soon, even though my arms ached from holding them. The Little Baby Tender had a built-in mother complex long before she grew up to be a real mother. By this time I was already a sculptor from playing in the mud by the ditchbank at Three Creek and created my little mud houses with mud people sitting on chairs, eating out of dishes from a table, of the same stuff. Thus, I can sympathize with God. I couldn't bear to put the roof on my little houses, else how could I move my characters around and create situations between them, supply the conversation for them? I could hardly bring myself to leave them at night, and thought up more manipulations for the next day, the rudiments not only of sculpture, but of drama and fiction also. Today my little great-grandson brought me a paper with large printing on it. "Grandma, I wrote a story, " he said proudly. I took it and read it: '"Will you do that?" said Jane. '"Yes, I will do that, " said Dick. The manuscript was signed "Robert. Robert's story will go into the folder I keep for him. Those wonderful genes! Long after I became a poet at three I found I had been infected from my own great-grandfather, who was Poet Laureate of Wales before he joined the LDS Church and migrated to Utah, married my great-grandmother, Charity Arms. His Welsh name was Guilym Ddu (William Lewis) and a sample of his capable poetry is: |
