Belles on their Toes

repose, hadn't changed much through the years. There was the new nose, of course.
    Anne waited a moment, and nudged her slightly.
    "I declare, you're a great one," Anne teased. "Work a whole lifetime to send your children through college, and then go to sleep when the final great moment arrives."
    Mother opened her eyes. "I wasn't asleep," she said softly. "I was saying thank you."

    Both Jane and Bob were married in a year or so—all of us married young and soon had children of our own. And then the war was over and the boys began to come home. Mother seemed to shed some of the years that had piled suddenly upon her.
    She thought it would be a good idea to hold a family reunion, so that all of us could see the boys and so that the three newest grandchildren could be christened together in our church in Montclair.
    We converged from various parts of the country. Some of us from out of town and our families stayed at Mother's apartment, and others moved in with those who lived in or near Montclair.
    Extra leaves were put back into the dining-room table, and Mother's ice box was full of baby bottles again. The good china was taken out of circulation and put on nigh shelves.
    As Mother bathed and powdered our children, and gave them their bottles, she seemed gayer and happier than we remembered seeing her since Dad's death. When it came time to do the dishes at night, she'd take three or four of the older grandchildren back into the kitchen and they'd dry while she washed. We'd hear a lot of giggling, and know Mother was telling them stories about when we were young. Sometimes they'd sing the old songs that Mother had taught us, and we had taught them.
    We whispered to each other that we couldn't understand why, since Mother seemed to enjoy our visit so much, she wouldn't move in with one of us.
    On the day of the christening, we assembled at the apartment and walked the two blocks to the church. Besides Mother and the eleven of us, there were our husbands and wives and fifteen of our children, including the three babies who were to be baptized.
    Two pews had been reserved for us at the front of the large, Gothic church. We walked down the center aisle as quietly as we could. But there were so many of us, and Mother knew so many people, that our entrance created a good deal of attention. Mother, ramrod straight and immensely dignified, led the delegation. We thought she looked as if she were proud of us and of her grandchildren. We hoped she was.
    The service started. The organ music rolled out loudly, and then there was a hush and the opening prayer. Three of our boys and their wives stepped forward with their babies.
    The clock turned backward for some of us.

    When we were young, there was a christening in the family almost every year. And although Dad had much more experience with baptisms than the average man, they always made him nervous and irritable.
    It wasn't just the christenings that he objected to—he objected to going to church for any reason. He kept saying that he was a religious man, and had nothing against churches; that he thought it was fine Mother and all of us went regularly.
    But he never went himself unless there was a reason, such as a christening. And even then Mother had to prod him all the way.
    Few martyrs ever looked more persecuted as they approached the stake than did Dad when, with a baby under his arm, he left the house for a christening.
    "This piecemeal business of christening them one at a time is the height of inefficiency," he'd storm to Mother. "It's a by-jingoed indignation, by jingo."
    "Maybe so, dear," Mother soothed him, "but I don't want to raise a houseful of heathens. One in the family is enough."
    "Me a heathen?" Dad yelped. "You know I'm a religious man. But this is my final piecemeal christening. After this one, we're going to wait until the last of them is born, and then get it all over with, in one efficient ceremony."
    "We can talk about that when the next one arrives," Mother smiled.
    "That's what you always say. And I wind up in church with a new baby on my hands!"
    Dad never had much confidence about holding babies when they were small. He was afraid he might hurt them, so he didn't grasp them firmly, and they'd wiggle until their dresses were up around their heads. When this happened, Dad would try to straighten out their clothes and get things so twisted around that Mother would have to come to the rescue.
    When he stood with Mother at the front of the church,