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Show in my father's house/ 160 My mother, in the midst of her "nervous breakdown" retreated farther into herself with-no piano to give her solace. Without my home and the larger family and especially without my father, I thought I'd never feel happy and comfortable again. We gloomily waited for my father to write and tell us what our next move would be. Then, one morning, Aunt Helga covered the walls and woodwork of the drab little shack with turquoise paint and hung window-curtains between the living and eating areas. The next morning I overheard her talking to my mother as she scrubbed clothes :against the washboard in the sunlit yard. "Wouldn't it be something if I had started out? Now, when everything is so unsure?" The way she said it - her voice so full of light and promise - made me think we could make our home here in this bare, dusty place. My mother nodded. "Our prayers are answered when we least expect them to be. That's what I cling to in my sickness. " The next week, buoyed by Aunt Helga's blithe urging, we met for family prayer. In the evening she made molasses taffy and taught us to pull it with buttery hands. At bedtime she read to us from her collection of Readers' Digest Novels. During that time, the Nevada sun shone whiter and kinder. The next week, Aunt Helga's mood changed and a pall hung over the bunkhouse. Aunt Helga snapped at us, complaining about the noise and confusion. |