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Here is a selection of excerpts from LOIS UNBOXED…use the scroll bar to view all.


 When I was a little past seven, I rebelled.  On one of my mother’s less busy afternoons, I talked to her about something or other that was more important to me at the time than anything else in the world.  I have forgotten now what it was. However that may be, she didn’t think much of my idea, so I decided to leave home.

 “All right, you may go.”  My mother was tranquil enough.  “Only pack everything you have so that there’s no reason to come back.”

 With that, I rushed upstairs and tried to gather everything I might ever need, only I couldn’t pick it all up, so I had to settle for an extra pair of stockings and underwear, the Bible and my Alice in Wonderland.  I put in extra handkerchiefs (these were pre-tissue days), my Sunday pearls, my wooden dolls and ten jacks in case I found someone to play with.  Then I came downstairs, went out the back door, slamming it behind me, and sat down on the steps to decide where to go.


 

 It was recalled that Mrs. Ludoon referred to her husband’s saloon only on two occasions.  Once there was a fire.  The last time was when it was sold.

 The first time she called the Fire Department and said “Please send help to blank number Germantown Avenue!  Our place of business is on fire.”

 When she was about to move, she told the neighbors, “My husband’s clubhouse is closing up.  He is going to go into the brokerage business.”

 No one knew where they moved, but about two years afterwards, a neighbor met Mr. Ludoon in town.  He looked quite prosperous and he said he had been doing fine with a pawnshop he had opened in Kensington.

 A rose by any other name always smelled sweeter to Mrs. Ludoon.



 I was born into a world where children are people, but parents aren’t.  This is supposed to make some sort of sense, but so far it has made very little to me.  One must be careful of what one says to and in front of a child, but apparently one can say anything at all to and in front of a parent.  

 A child’s psyche can be irreparably damaged, but the damage to the parent who is supposed to protect the child from harm is of less consequence, even if it means his livelihood is endangered and his mental outlook shadowed as though touched by death.  It is an interesting theory.  I’m delighted I don’t believe in it.  




 Since I have two sons, I keep trying to comfort myself as the older one goes through another stage that I will at least know how to cope with it when the younger one arrives at the same point.  The problem is, I never seem to remember that they are two different people.  They are quite unlikely to go through the same stage - if the same one it be - in the same fashion.  And, since it is a first time for them, it is most difficult for them to find their way through it. Unfortunately, it is a first time for me too!



 I have been told that there are people who wake up in the morning.  I understand my husband is such.  I wouldn’t know.  I am never conscious enough to tell.

 Something happens to me, but exactly what is a mystery.  I find myself at my desk, the cover off my typewriter, apparently fully clothed, ready for action and I manage to get through a morning with some degree of efficacy.

 By noontime, I have warmed up and begin to concentrate and comprehend what is going on.

 I never cease to be delighted that so much gets done during these hours when I am asleep.  What puzzles me most is how many of the people who do all these things may be doing them asleep too.  Who is to know?



       I could give up working, I suppose.  We would still eat.  We would still have unpaid bills.  But I’ve done that already and I find myself turning into a frightful bore.  Four walls are no longer quite enough for a woman.  Her family grows up and their needs are greater than mom and home cooking.  If she’s in love, she can make do, but her conversation, if she has any, can get damn monotonous to a man who’s been in the pit all day and wants something more than a housekeeper, though less than a goddess.

  Oddly, I may be old-fashioned.  I believe in a double standard.  I even find it desirable.  It is still a man’s world. I’m still a woman and I don’t want to be a man’s equal if it means digging ditches or building roads or erecting subways.  I dote on lipstick and girdles and high heels and all the frou-frou a woman is supposed to like - and usually does.

       And so—kismet.  I will endure the bosses with the dispositions that give me the ulcers or what-have-you, all in exchange for a chance at a handbag sale at Wanamaker’s and an escape from a discussion of laundry soaps and lamb chop prices on the home front.


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