From my earlier memory of Mother it somehow seemed quite natural to think of her as different, nor of everyday things as Father was. In those days he was a young-looking man. He did not hesitate to make friends with children as soon as they were able to talk to him and laugh at his stories. Mother was older than he was. She must have been a woman of nearly forty, but she seemed even older. She changed little for a long time, showing no indication of growing old at all until, towards the end of her life, she suddenly became an old lady. I was always _ about Mother's age. She never had birthdays like other people, nor did anyone else in our family. No candles were ever lit or cakes made or presents given in our house. To my friends in the street who talked delightfully about their birthday parties, I would repeat my mother's words that such celebrations were only foolish. "Nothing but deception," she would say. "As though life can be marked by birthdays. It's deeds, not years, that matter." Although I often repeated her words and even prided myself on not having birthdays, I once could not help asking Mother when she was born. "I was born. I'm alive as you can see, so what more do you want to know?" she replied, so sharply that I never asked her about her age again. In so many other ways Mother was different. Whereas all the rest of the women I knew in the neighboring hoses took pride in their housewifely abilities, their new furniture, the neat appearance of their homes, Mother regarded all those things as of little importance. Our house always looked as if we had just moved in or were about to move out. How did Father impress the author?
He liked writing stories. He loved making friends. He was a very young man. He was popular with children.