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Christmas Eve, 1938

Just before this wonderful, cold, dark—and in the lives of some of us—nearly final Christmas Eve, I suddenly found that my plans were not the same as my Mothers’.  I thought I would be in Brookline with my friends (they would call for me in ancient cars that shot out jets of steam and smoke), and Mother thought I would be with her, singing to the old people at the Convalescent Home.  I still remember that, as I learned this, I was standing just next to the Christmas tree in the morning room (it had glass Christmas lights shaped like fish).  Mother had, I realized, made up her mind that I would not be allowed to leave the family on Christmas Eve, and I had made up mine that no power on Earth would separate me from my friends.  In the end, we all went to the Convalescent Home—and since then, the visit is so well-remembered and often mentioned by my friends that I think they may remember it better than they remember me.

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