Do-re-mi-fa…James.
Why don’t you listen to me?
I’m worried about how
we’re going to feed our three children.
How can you sit there and read the newspaper
when we don’t have any food on the shelf?
You don’t even know what you’re reading.
You’re only interested in that newspaper.
When we first got married,
you were wonderful and attentive.
Now I’m not happy like I used to be.
What happened to our marriage?
You don’t pay me enough attention.
We both have to stick together
if we want to get through this Depression era.
I feel like I’m going to cry.
A lot of men don’t discuss their worries with their wives.
Women need to know what’s going on.
I wish I didn’t feel so alone.
The two of us were supposed to work together.
I’m praying about it. Praying about everything.
This is a warm yellow room.
It smells like sandalwood.
I want to play Happy Days Are Here Again.
I’m pregnant again. Our fourth child.
I don’t know how to tell you.
You’ll think it’s my fault.
“I’m pregnant,” I’ll say.
You’ll be in denial. You won’t accept it.
You’ll ask, “Is it my baby?”
And then “When is it going to be born?”
No, you won’t care that much.
It’s a quiet atmosphere.
That tells you something about us.
We won’t yell and scream at each other.
I’m happy about the baby. My folks will be happy, too.
I hope it’s a boy to make it even-steven.
He can be a newspaper delivery boy.
He’ll help us around the house.
You’ll be happy if it’s another boy.
You wish they were all boys to carry on your name.
If it’s a boy, we’ll call him Bubba. It’s a Southern name.
If we moved back to the South,
you could plant a garden to feed the new baby.
Have you found an interesting job yet?
Better than being an executive
in a business office, or driving a truck?
If you had come to me and said “I want a baby,”
I would have said no.
You look happy now. I’ll tell you now.
Let’s go for a walk.
I have something special to tell you.
POEM BY: Phil, Margie, Margaret, Grace, Mary, Anna, Myra, Gretchen, Sarah
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