Humor Day, Clarence: Life With Mother. v1. 05 July 2012

[GrannyGrump]

By Clarence Day (1874 - 1935), the author of “Life With Father,” “God and My Father,” “The Crow’s Nest,” “This Simian World,” etc.
The third in the trio of memoirs of the Day family, the book presents sketches of family life in New York in the 1880s and 90s. Father Day’s presence dominates each scene just as it has since his son began telling tales about him in the magazines of the 1930s. But Mother Day is also a feisty character who is more than a match for her domineering husband.
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From kirkusreviews.com: Sure fire -- it might have been cut from the same cloth as “Life With Father,” and people will be comparing notes over which is their favorite of the two. Though the emphasis is on his mother, his father emerges as clear-cut and tangy as ever. Gentle humor, sympathetically objective, occasional satire with the velvet glove, a perfect picture of two people and a background. There is more of the homes and the details of living, perhaps, than in [Life With Father]. To get the special and distinctive flavor of this one, read ‘Mother and Bessie Skinner’s Ring’ and ‘Father Brightens the Sickroom.’

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An excerpt:

On a visit to Father and Mother one summer I found that they had a new dog. He was leading a happy and interesting life with them, but a somewhat bewildered one too. I had made a note in my diary of the following instance:

My father is fond of dogs. Likes to train them. His method is this: He says to the new dog, “Good Jackie,” or whatever the name is. The dog wags his tail. “Come here,” says my father; “come here, boy.” The dog looks at him doubtfully. My father, who hasn’t a great deal of patience, raises his voice: “Come! Come here, sir!”
The dog grows alarmed and tries to get out.
My father advances upon him, repeating, “Come here!” with increasing annoyance and sternness.
“I wish you’d let Jackie alone,” says my mother. “He doesn’t know what you want of him.”
“Pooh! Of course he does,” declares my father. “He knows damn well. Come here, sir!” And he drags the new dog from under the sofa.
“Sit up,” he instructs him. The dog is utterly limp. “Sit up. Come! Sit up.” He shakes his finger at him. “Sit up, sir!”
“Oh, please don’t,” says my mother. “How can you expect the poor thing to sit up when he doesn’t know a word that you’re saying!”
“Will you let me alone?” shouts my father. “Sit up, sir! Sit up!”
My mother goes to the door. “I’ll not stay here and see that dog frightened to death.”
“Frighten!” my father says, testily. “What nonsense! I know dogs. They all like me.”
The dog sees the door being opened and suddenly bolts.
My father grabs fiercely at him. In vain. “Confound it!” he says, in a passion. “Now see what you’ve done! You’ve spoiled my whole plan.” He stamps.
“You could never -” my mother begins.
“I COULD!” roars my father. “But I can’t do a thing if I’m interfered with. Where’s that dog gone? JACKIE! Here, Jackie! Come here, sir!”

I copied this fragment out of my diary, tucked it in as a filler, and when it appeared I showed it to Mother.
“I remember that day,” she said. “That’s just the way he always treats dogs.” She hurried off with the clipping to where Father was, in the library. “Here, Clare,” she said triumphantly, “read this!”
Father read it in his usual slow, careful, methodical way, taking note of each word. He looked up at Mother with a smile of satisfaction and sympathy. “I hope you’ll behave yourself after this,” he chuckled, “that’s just how you kept interfering with my training that dog.”

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No illustrations (I believe these may have been illustrated when first published, if anyone knows of a source, please do let me know.) Decorative fonts for chapter-heads, tail decorations, and drop-caps. Large-cap version also available.

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