Monday at 6:45 a.m. I was born at 554 Avenue E. Bayonne, NJ.
Moved to Jersey City.
Family moved to 758 Avenue A. Bayonne, NJ
Started school at St. Henry’s Catholic school.
Moved to Wright Avenue, Bayside, Long Island, NY
Mother, Harold, Jimmie, Chili, Sket, and Fred went to England. Dad, Eddie and I took an apartment on 17th Street near 3rd Ave in New York City. Attended St. Stephen’s parochial school.
Dad, Eddie and I moved into 523 Knickerbocker Road, Tenafly, NJ. The happiest days of my life.
Spent parts of several summers with Bill Clarke at his summer place in Cornwall Bridge, CT. His father, Dr. Clarke, the person with the strongest influence on my character aside from my family.
Harold and I left high school before graduation to ship as deck hands on S.S. Dromore Castle, Union-Castle Line, a British ship for St. Helena and South Africa. Upon arrival in Cape Town received a cable informing me I had won a four-year full scholarship to Rutger’s University. Proceeded up East Coast of South Africa to Fort Elizabeth where I transferred to S.S. Dundrum Castle for Baltimore; Harold continuing on Dromore. Stopped at Cape Town, Walfish Bay, and St. Vincent on return trip. Left ship as soon as it docked in Baltimore, as I was short on time needed to complete some high school work needed to get a diploma. Entered Rutgers barely in time for September term.
Started work at Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in NYC having applied for a temporary summer job in answer to an ad for college students interested in becoming actuaries.
Decided to continue at Metropolitan on a permanent basis and become an actuary. I preferred this to completing college although it meant giving up the remaining three years of scholarship.
Eddie, Harold, Jimmie, and I bought a corporation of which I became secretary at the mature age of seventeen. The corporation bought a house, “The Cottage,” and twelve acres of land to the rear of 523 Knickerbocker Road.
Dad sold 523 Knickerbocker Road and he, Ma, Chili, Sket, and Fred moved to England. Eddie, Harold, Jimmie, and I moved into “The Cottage” to keep bachelor quarters. The happiest days of my life. Would love to write a whole book about this alone.
Attended Citizen’s Military Training Camp at Plattsburgh Barracks on Lake Champlain. Finished as sergeant and was urged to apply for a commission but demurred.
Harold and Jimmie blew me to a trip to England and France. All expenses paid! How many people do you know lucky enough to have brothers like that? They don’t make them like that anymore.
The happiest day of my life. Married Ruth Louise Ferris. Lived in 523 Knickerbocker Road.
Became an Associate by examination of both the American Society of Actuaries and American Institute of Actuaries. In 1949 these two bodies merged to become the Society of Actuaries of which in 1985 I am still a member.
Moved to Sunset Lane, Tenafly
Moved to 139 Grove Street, Tenafly, the less affluent section of town. A miserable move for the family; not the happiest days of our lives.
Missed draft by two days. Was due to appear on Tuesday for my physical exam to be drafted but announcement came through that they were drafting no one over age 26.
Metropolitan transferred me to San Francisco. Drove across continent with Ruth, Gary, and Alan. Liven in four different places while there. The happiest days of my life.
Promoted to Assistant Vice President of Metropolitan.
Became a member of the American Academy of Actuaries, a body formed in 1965.
Metropolitan transferred me back to NYC, Lived in Peter Cooper Village, First Avenue and 22nd Street in NYC.
Bought and moved into Ruth’s father’s place at 705 Bergen St. in Bellmore, LI so he could live with us in his beloved home as he was no longer capable of living alone.
Last day at work at Metropolitan Life. Retired as Vice-President. The happiest days of my life.
Drove to California to live in our condominium #33 at 410 Church Road in Ojai. The happiest years of my life.
Of Making Books There Is No End
Justin Huntley McCarthy
A Ballad Of Book-Making
The playwright's mouth, the preachers jangle,
The critics challenge and defend,
And Fiction turns the Muses' mangle
Of making books there is no end.
Ruby Alice Thompson - Journal - October 12, 1917
I have been thinking an awful lot about Grandma Side of late. I think will make time to write a sketch of her. She was a noteworthy woman; and anyhow it might interest some of my children or grandchildren.
I am really writing this diary for my grandchildren. Diaries seem awful nonsense when you look back through those you write and you yourself appear such a conceited fool in them -- but still, to grandchildren, they may present a curious fossilized tableau of our times. What would I not give for Grandma Side's old diaries: diaries she was writing from 1840 to 1870 or so? Why did she destroy them? What treasures they would have been to me! I hope I won't get a fit of disgust at mine and destroy them pell-mell twenty years or so hence. I have a dream favorite granddaughter and these scribbles are for her.
Dear God: Please break me a leg-painlessly. I want to write a book but am already too busy with other activities and breaking a leg would salvage me the twenty-odd hours per week now preempted by tennis. But, God, be sure to remember that part about painlessly.
I am not even certain it is exactly a "book" I want to write but shall use that term until I see what emerges. I am now reading 42 volumes of a journal my mother maintained over a period of 60 years, from 1909-1969, from the time she was a young matron until her eyesight failed her a few months before she died. When she was no longer able to read or write she was deprived of her two compulsive pleasures and decided to close her life-book forever.
As a curious aside, Dad died for a similar reason. He had been doing the household chores and generally looking after Ma and when she departed, his mission was over and he died two months later -- even though he was in full charge right up to his final day maintaining his own household and even preparing for a transatlantic voyage.
A FEW PEBBLES
Andrew Marvell...TO HIS COY MISTRESS
but at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near.
Although Mother's journal provided the initial impulse for my writing these notes I abandoned any attempt at following her day-by-day accounts, principally because I got such a late start. Whereas she began at age 25 and went on writing for 60 years I am starting at age 74 and can look forward to only a minor fraction of such a span of time. Her method was best for her; mine for me. However as I allow myself considerably more latitude in format I shall not completely avoid an occasional daily item of current interest. Here is one in Mother's mode.
Wednesday 18 April 1984.
Almost midnight. Mother's birthday. She would have been exactly one hundred years old today--an age she frequently vowed to attain. She made 85 and nine months which is not too too bad at that. Her eyes went bad and she could no longer read or write, her two chief pleasures, so she figured the game was no longer worth the candle and the candle could not light the game. I don't blame her one bit.
Laurel and Paisley here for Easter holidays; Lynn driving down Friday for the weekend and to pick them up. Exceptionally bright and most pleasant kids, and Mother would have been happy to have known them.
A while ago Paisley wandered into the living room to state she was having difficulty getting to sleep and requesting a banana, her usual home remedy for insomnia.
ME: Certainly. I'll get you one. Oops! Sorry. Nothing here but green ones.
PAISLEY: I always eat green bananas.
You can't beat a smart kid on details.
I am so enchanted by Mother's journal my mind keeps reverting to it. There should be at least one such record in the family each generation and here is a contribution for my generation. Mother's so intrigues me I shall imitate parts of its format even if I despair of simulating its intensity and grace of expression. Mother read exhaustively, volume after volume after volume and with it all furnished in her journal ideas about what she read -- good and bad; likes and dislikes--so I shall here touch upon a few aspects of her writing.
Mother rarely repeated herself, or repeated anybody else, except, of course, in giving a direct quote. You cannot find a cliche per volume; everything is new minted and sparkling and she never descends to the latest buzz word. No "last but not least" or "At this point in time" or "The bottom line" or "In no way, shape, or form." But with all that there are three phrases she returns to, to describe three recurring feelings and I shall mention them her so as to provide a few gleanings from her voluminous writings.
Religion, a certain source of great comfort to many, was a frequent cause of disquieting change to Mother--for several reasons. Basically three different religious systems ran through her mind like a braid, different ones uppermost at different times, and she could never settle comfortable very long in any one of them. Her family background was Church of England. In her later youth and early adult life she was much impressed by a Charles Voysey, the head of a Theistic Church. Then about four years after their marriage my father converted to Catholicism and Mother followed him into it, perhaps halfheartedly and to please him; or perhaps intellectually or emotionally. Who knows?
Basically Mother was a Theist. She always believed in God but believed in religion only sporadically. She believed there was a god but usually rejected the divinity of Jesus and considered dogma man-made. She enjoyed and respected the Old Testament but did not respond to the New; she frequently considered it on a par with Mother Goose. Also she considered my father a religious nut. Herein I, personally, agree with her but must admit there were many, many who considered him a saint. A question of viewpoint. I hasten to add that I always respected my father and I am much like him — cause and effect? — But we disagreed on religion and resented it's being the most important force in his life--which it most certainly was. How can a wife compete against religion? Dad's religion, which to him was a spiritual blessing, was to Ma an emotional curse.
Mother was always most certain and serious in her religious belief, as certain as the Pope and as serious as the Archbishop of Canterbury; but she never retained the same certainty very long--a sure sign of an open mind. Each time she recorded her re-conversion to Catholicism - Roman Catholic, she called it--she would end her report with, "Lord, I believe; help mine unbelief." A one point she mentions her favorite saint, Jane Frances De Chantal, as having used the expression but otherwise never alludes to its author. Actually it comes from the Bible, the Ninth Chapter of Mark, and was spoken by the man who had asked the disciples to cast out the dumb spirit from his son, but they lacked the faith to do so. It is most likely Mother knew the Biblical origin and merely supposed everyone else would likewise recognize it.
In any case, Mother would later revert to Church of England or Theism or each in turn and still later "return to Rome" with ever stronger conviction and then would come, "Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief."
To her compositional credit Mother did not use this expression as a cliche but more as a prayer, and prayers are by their nature, like the Pledge of Allegiance, repetitious. She was asking for help to reinforce her new found faith, like the father in Mark's Ninth Chapter.
Later when she lost the faith she would end her recording with a self-reproach. "Unstable as water, thou shalt not prevail." Here, again, she did not mention the biblical origin of the quote -- Chapter 49 of Genesis where Jacob on his deathbed is putting a curse on Reuben his oldest son for having slept with his, Jacob's concubine. Here it is doubtful if Mother thought of the source as, although the words fit her situation, the sense certainly did not. (Interpolation several months later after reading some dozen more volumes of Mother's journal--a quote from the journal for August 19, 1958, "Remembering one of the texts which has always applied to me: the judgement on Reuben: Unstable as water thou shalt not prevail.")
Come to think of it there was another expression, not of Biblical origin, Mother used as solace when things did not go as she thought they should, "There ain't no justice." In this case, however, she always credited me with being the author. I would not want to state no one made that remark before I did but I do know that thought partly reconciled me to any number of inequities at least to the extent of providing the feeling that the present quality of justice was not too much worse than its general manifestation. As far back as I can remember I had an over-emphasized sense of justice and like so many others it always pained me when justice was not done, most particularly when I felt better justice would have produced a more favorable result for my particular cause.
I DISCOVER CIVILIZATION
RUBY ALICE THOMPSON-JOURNAL
July 5, 1961, (regarding qualms about a young girl about to enter a convent) However I cannot do anything about Teresa Button. She will have to dree her own weird, like the rest of us.
Behold, how good and how pleasant it is for the brethren to dwell together in unity! PSALM 133
My dictionary does not state so but it is clear to me civilization starts with cooperation. Civilization is cooperation and cooperation is civilization. Civilization is merely regarding your neighbor as part of your extended family. Cro-Magnon Man goes hunting while Cro-Magnon woman minds C.M. Man, Jr. Cro-Magnon Man and Cro-Magnon Brother team up with Cro-Magnon Neighbors to hunt Cro-Magnon antelope and defend against Cro-Magnon saber-toothed tiger; and thus starts civilization.
My brother Eddie used to bully me just to break the monotony, to break his monotony; I would sooner have had the monotony. I recall in particular one special form of his deviltry. He would stand me in front of him and issue specific instructions to the effect that under no circumstances was I to do what he commanded. He would then order me to leave the room and I , naturally, would remain in place. He would then issue increasingly stern orders for me to depart, shouting louder and louder and making more and more dire threats until I would eventually depart, only to bring down extra wrath for having disobeyed his original stipulation. An early Catch 22, even before the phrase was penned.
Mother provided no specific defense against these tyrannies but her mere presence inhibited the more outlandish forms. There was no problem when Dad was on the scene; his sense of justice would not have tolerated any such shenanigans. In Mother's defense it must be stated she had better ways to spend her time and found it easier to deputize Eddie to keep things under control than to do so herself.
To borrow a north country phrase that I learned from Mother years later, I decided I would just have to dree my own weird, meaning to suffer my own fate. (You get little opportunity to use such a phrase so I might as well sneak it in while the situation is apropos.) I just tried to understand my world to the extant possible and to defend against it to the extent necessary. In the case of Eddie the only defense that occurred to me was to out wait him. A tedious prospect but I perceived no other. I just dreed my weirds on the assumption that was the natural state of humanity. I do not recall even being provoked at Ma for not coming to my defense, probably working on the assumption it was none of her business , which seemed to be a reliable working thesis at the time and squared the facts.
One early summer day in Tenafly when I was eleven of twelve Eddie was working me over just outside the kitchen door. I have no recollection of the proximate cause of his bully ragging, perhaps he had not enjoyed his breakfast; perhaps he had just finished reading a book and it was too soon before lunch for him to go to the library for another.
Enter Harold coming up from the barn. We had no prearranged plan but Harold apparently took in the situation and sent me somebody language. Facing me, he through his head to his left shoulder pointing toward Eddie and pursed his lips like a chimp holding them out for a peanut and put a question mark on his face. I nodded agreement and we jumped Eddie!
I dropped low and wrapped my arms around his legs and Harold rushed him amidships and down he went with the hollow thud of a keg toppled off a stool; and more surprised than pleased. The rest was just technique. Our combined two hundred odd pounds were more than his one hundred and twenty or so could manage although he did thrash around considerably. It required little time for us to work our way around to lie on top of him and tire him out. As his struggles subsided his bellowing increased with foul language like you never heard before: "I'll break your goddamn necks. Jesus, when I get up I'll knock the crap out of you both. I'll break every bone in your lousy bodies. " Uprising! Revolt! Revolution!
Enter Ma brandishing a bristle broom,armed to drive off a brace of attacking curs. Not to save our goddamn necks or lousy bodies or to keep our crap in us but to order us to let him up. The natural love of the first born. This hooked us right on the traditional horns of the traditional dilemma. We had never before disobeyed Mother but on the other horn we did not relish broken bones or having crap knocked out any faster than normally. Caution or fear, at first prevailed over training and we remained atop the sputtering victim. No punching, no twisting, ; just dead weight.
After a spell his struggles subsided, then his invective. It dawned on him how ridiculous such mighty threats sounded from such a supine position. An impasse. Like Humbert Humbert's first close encounter with Lolita, we had found the whole procedure much easier than we would have considered possible.
Finally we let him up. Instead of breaking any bones or knocking any crap he went over and stood beside Ma as if to declare: "Us tow against you two," but much abashed realizing another encounter would produce like results. Like the story book bully he thrived on bluster but wilted against sufficient determination. Finally Ma put up her battle broom and we all went off trying to appear as casual as possible.
That is the way I discovered civilization, the realization that cooperation beats antagonism and is lots more fun. It also straightened out Eddie's thinking considerably and likewise introduced him to civilization.
Quaint examples of this are provided by those who cling to titles outside the sphere the title covers: The ex-colonel referred to as Colonel Smith and the holder of a PhD in English Literature who is introduced by his wife at general functions as Doctor Brown to indicate rank above other guests holding Masters degrees who are not called Master. Bertrand Russell, an English Earl, took a stand on this practice by not allowing his publishers to mention his title in his writings on philosophy and mathematics, allowing his words to stand on their own merits.
In our particular society there are many situations where you are allowed to brag and some where bragging and overstatement are required. Unlimited boasting is allowed, even expected, about recently acquired grandchildren. You never hear a grandmother say anything like, "We spent the weekend with our new granddaughter. She looks like a regular run-of-the-mill child. She has blue eyes but I was sort of hoping for one with brown; and her disposition is about standard. She will smile once in a while if you make a special fuss, and she yawns just like any other six-month-old."
You are required to boast about your country. This is called patriotism and it is practically a constitutional requisite when asking for votes. The boasting is temporarily suspended when describing the terrible mess left by the party of your political opponent. Such bragging is generally extended to include your state and your school of higher learning. In this later case the bragging is more frequently about the athletic prowess than the academic superiority of your institution. This bragging of athletic superiority is not curtailed as a matter of social mores, as bragging of your wife's good looks might be, and is never omitted due to the lack of interest in your listener. This is known as school spirit and is particularly virile in Texas and the other forty-nine states.
This lengthy preamble is my way of letting you know I am going to try to tell you my worst faults as well as I can as I see them and as reported by others without regard to the social habits usually attached to such telling. Some of them are embarrassing to recount but I shall make up for that by boasting of my merits later on. Let's get on to the warts.
I do not dance.
My handwriting is execrable. When I first heard complaints of my cursive writing I thought that "cursive" was an adjective meaning "curse-able" and in my case it does.
I have a severe disability whose correction would require a major operation by a highly skilled orthopedic surgeon. This involves a defective hinge on my right jaw. This causes me no physical discomfort but produces a clunking sound like knuckle cracking (which my family call "munching") when I chew, to the annoyance of my table mates. I eat too fast. (I sound like a delightful dinner companion!) This clunking in my right jaw is echoed in both knees when I walk. Just why I have it on both sides in the legs but only on one side of the jaw remains one of life's minor medical mysteries. The Great Mechanic just gave me a faulty lubricating system in a few places.
I sneeze too loud.
I am a lousy dresser, not by design like a hippy but by unconcern. The Thompson indifference to public opinion. In other words, I am not an aggressively poor dresser but, rather, am not a good dresser. At critical moments when Ruth covers up this shortcoming by a quick inspection to prevent my wearing stripes with checks or mixing plaid slacks with a plaid jacket. Indeed when I went to the office Adele would frequently contribute her good taste; she would disappear from the breakfast table and return with several neckties for me to select from in preference to the one I had previously chosen , perhaps in the dark.I have much to thank her for in my business success.
Another wart -- I am a lousy singer and this is one of my deepest disappointments. I feel singing is wonderful and would give my right arm for ability therein. It would not have to be world class, just passing competence. This is one of those places where inherent ability is of prime importance and I just did not net my share. I try to console myself with considering my fortunate inherited characteristics such as my deep insight into the female mind, a rare gift indeed, but after long reflection would still rather have had moderate singing ability than such perfect insight.
I do not have enough Christmas spirit. Ruth calls me Scrooge. She does not really mean it quite that bad but still there is much merit in her contention. Left to my own devices I would not buy and dress a tree or string colored lights along the eaves. Nor is DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS one of my favorite songs. On the other hand I am not at all opposed to those with more traditional tastes. That is, I am not anti-Christmas; it is just that I am not gung-ho thereon either. So sue me. I admit the charge and throw myself on the mercy of the court.
Another example in support of Ruth's contention; I do not send any Christmas cards. Instead I send individual typed letters. Form letters do not convey my form of sentiment and where I have any reasonably acceptable choice I do not conform to a custom I do not support. Another thing, several of my hyper-religious friends insist that Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ and for that reason Christmas cards should celebrate only that event. Scenes of the manger but no Tiny Tim or yule logs. Fair enough for ardent Christian but artfully excluding greetings to or from infidels.
We cannot all be expected to show identical amounts of enthusiasm for all projects. Nor am I deficient in enthusiasm in all areas. For instance, right now I am most enthusiastic about reducing the federal debt, so much so I would welcome my paying more taxes to do so -- an enthusiasm not shared by most people. Several years ago I was most enthusiastic about Ruth taking care of her ancient father even though doing so took up my time and effort as well as hers.
My greatest shortcoming, the place I get the worst marks, has been as a father; my major failure. A difficult truth to tell and an embarrassing one, but Mother's journal had embarrassing things to tell and I can see that a journal that would omit such items is a balance sheet that understates the liabilities and cannot pass discriminating auditors. If I admit my worst faults I at least give the impression I was not guilty of rape, murder, or marking the cards. Come to think of it, and this is going to sound mighty smug, I count this as my only major failure.
True, I have had many, many failures but no others I count of similar substance. (I failed both English and Latin in High School, just for starters. Jimmy once remarked that I crowded one year of Latin into two years.) For instance there have been better sons to their parents, and I could have been a better son had I tried harder, but I feel I got by with fair average marks, all things considered, particularly after weighing my generally lax attitude of tackling things by approximation. My failure as a father has not been by design and contemplation like my Atheism but what makes it the more disheartening is that I have good kids. But, as Mother writes about sad things in her journal, "But there it is."
As an aside, I believe my best roles have been as uncle, brother, and boss. As a partial counterweight to that avuncular brag it must be freely admitted that the person who has held me in lowest esteem over the longest period of time and complained about me the most (including business associates and bridge partners) is a nephew! One of life's little paradoxes. The other nephews and nieces just lacked his insight.
Ruth explains my parental shortcomings by noting that my mother was not a naturally maternal woman and showed me little love. Although I have to agree with Ruth's statement of the facts I am not so sure they lead to her conclusion. That is, I have to freely admit, howbeit reluctantly, that Ruth is correct in that Mother was not maternal and I was far from being her favorite son. Are the Thompson boys entitled to the most maternal mother on the block? Just because Benjamin was the favorite son of Jacob should Reuben, Simeon, Levi, Judah, Zebulon and the other six go into the mopes? (Reuben at least got a sandwich named after him!) Besides, suppose I had been Mother's favorite, that would merely have demoted Eddie or Harold or someone else to my position of Un favorite and only switched things around without improving the net result overall. Actually I was quite content with my mother and much preferred her to Ruth Eason, Mary Smith, Elsie Palmenberg or any other I saw on the block-maternal or non-maternal favorite or non favorite. I did at the time; I still do. My father too. Call me smug.
Much fuss is made in magazine articles and the like for the desirability of mothers lavishing love and affection upon their offspring; but without belittling their characteristic, I feel there are other attributes one can gain from a parent and on balance I am much content with Ruby Alice Thompson in that role.
As a boy I realized Mother was far from being storybook maternal; but I never resented this in her; that was the way she was, the way she came from the shop, just as she was mercurial, changeable, and unpredictable. I certainly was not in the habit of passing harsh judgement on her nor do I recall ever wishing I had a different mother, although I frequently thought how much I preferred her (and my father) to other parents I knew. They were strong intellectuals and intellectually stimulating. True, I met other intellectuals but never such a pronounced intellectual couple; and their conversation I found most stimulating. Also it never occurred to me I was entitled to the best parents on all scores, any more than we were entitled to the biggest house or the best kept lawn in town. Perhaps a shiftless attitude, but that was it. Still is.
To keep the record in balance, and lest you feel I might be a professional Mama's boy, I must add two things I did not appreciate about Mother. For one, I found her justice capricious and this the more galling as I had an over developed sense of justice. She always umpired in favor of Eddie against me and gave me little or no protection against his tyranny. Looking back at the situation there is much to be said for Mother's position. Seven active sons were just too much for her and it was easier to deputize Eddie, the oldest, to maintain order with imperfect justice than to do it herself with any attempt thereat. Harold explains the situation graphically (although in terms of Dad): Dad included Eddie as his deputy… whereas we were in Operations he was Staff -- supervisor--morale officer — while we carried pails and feed he flicked only a vocal swagger stick to keep us on our toes and gave us an occasional push or poke or shove or slap.
The other thing I did not fully appreciate was Ma's occasional impetuous back of the hand. Again in her posthumous defense it must be said I was a tempestuous kid among many others and undoubtedly deserved more backhands than I received. I was more sinning than sinned against; still am. Still, the occasional undeserved backhand rankled at the time.
Now that we have declared open season on Mother I might as well unburden myself of one more item that used to give me no small annoyance. Every so often, principally with the change in seasons, when I arrived home from school Ma would dragoon me to move the bedroom furniture around. We always lived in a large house, all the Thompson's love large houses, and typically she would decide to interchange her large bedroom with another slightly larger, or smaller, or with more sunlight, or with a window seat, or with better cross-ventilation, or, or, or. When the new arrangement had been put to rights and I awaited dismissal to get onto the important things of the day, Ma would hold me captive while surveying the situation with that look of bemusement the Queen of Diamonds uses in contemplating her hand held flower. This was frequently followed by orders to move the bed from that wall to this and to remove one of the bookcases. Not infrequently the whole situation would be reversed the next day back to the status quo ante.
Sounds like Rough-On-Mother Day; but dear is Mother, but dearer still is truth.
Thinking back on all these annoyances I reach the conclusion they represent not so much a high level of annoyance in Ma as an abundance of annoy-ability in John. A frequent situation in personal relationships. I see it often.
Early in this chapter I mentioned the musical play My Fair Lady and that reminds me of a wonderful gesture I cannot allow to pass unrecorded.
When they were in High School Jackie Bonnie, and Gary and also Bob Thompson used to spend their summer vacation working for The Fresh Air Fund, a charitable organization that sent city kids to the country for a few weeks. (Runs through my mind Alan also did this for a spell, and perhaps Adele.) At that time My Fair Lady was all the rage and it was well — nigh impossible to obtain tickets to see it. However each morning a few tickets for that evenings performance would be put on sale for standing-room. The kids would stay in New York City for the evening to see a move and then stand in line at the box office waiting for it to open in the morning to seek these standing-room tickets. They enjoyed the show so much they did this several times.
Then they wanted to stand on line all night to get tickets for me and Ruth. A truly magnanimous offer and a most touching gesture. Much as we wanted to see the show we declined the offer with thanks feeling we could not in conscience allow them to make such a sacrifice for our pleasure particularly since tickets would eventually become available on a regular basis.
I am still impressed! Thankful. Good kids!
MY FAMILY - AN OVERVIEW
Let us now praise famous men and our fathers in their generations. ECCLESIASTICS
Edward Thompson (1879-1970) -- GENEALOGY NOTES WRITTEN ABOUT 1964: I was aware of comments on THE THOMPSON'S, indicating that we were regarded as something out of the ordinary. It seemed to consist in an independence in ideas and conduct, marked by an indifference to public opinion. This may be a correct diagnosis but it will serve.
When a boy or a youth speaks of his family he refers to his parents and his brothers and sisters. When a grown man speaks of his family he is usually talking about his wife and children. I am a bridge between two very, very different families although they are of necessity alike in some ways.
I often thought there should be different words to distinguish between these two families such as some languages have different words to distinguish between your father's sister, your mother's sister, and the wife of your father's or mother's brother -- all of whom are called Aunt in English. I'll make a start at such terminology by here referring to my original grouping as my FAMILY in capital letters and my current one as my family (in lower case) unless the context makes everything clear.
Although I am a grown man, right now I wish to tell about my original FAMILY, my parents and brothers, and shall largely leave until later giving details about my current family. I want to give my impressions of my FAMILY so my grandchildren and their grandchildren can detect what THOMPSON characteristics they discern in their own families, for better or worse.
My parents were alike in many, many ways and diametrically opposite in a few others. Both were London born and London bred; both of English stock as far as anyone knew except for Mother's tinge of Irish. Her maternal grandfather, Joe Beates, was a dashing Irishman and Pattern Man in Lord Enniskillen's Own regiment. That "Pattern Man" meant that he was the model soldier in the regiment and as such was granted extra pay and privileges. His boots were always shined, his quarters most orderly. These characteristics show up here and there in later generations. They missed me but showed up with increased recrudescence in Gary.
Both of my parents were highly intelligent and imaginative and both were excellent conversationalists. Both extremely hospitable. Although there were nine in the immediate FAMILY they frequently had long term house guests and almost always hosted a squad of visitors for Sunday dinner.
Two cases are so remarkable they are worn separate mention. Lord North, about whom there will be more anon, ate at the Thompson table something in excess of 2500 times and Margaret something over 1900 times. This includes not just at my parents' table but also at mine and later Ruth's. Except for Jimmy, none of us ever ate at Lord North's and Jimmie's total would be in the neighbor hood of 50 times. None of this is by way of complaint (I could protect myself.) But just to indicate the sheer volume of the Thompson hospitality.
Father was of average height, fair, blue-eyed, trim, personable. Highly energetic both physically and mentally and this carried over into his hobbies: gardening, swimming, ping-pong, bridge, poker, tennis as a young man, travel. So if your wife complains that you spend too much time playing games explain to her you inherited it from Ted Thompson. Chili and Sket inherited his love of the soil and Jimmie his penchant for travel, but I never received the first and lost the second in later life. Orderly, analytical, original. Musical. Unflappable. Happy. Skeptical. Reliable. Contentious. Religious. Very religious.
Mother also was fair and blue-eyed. A titian redhead who retained much of her natural hair color well into her later years. Even her name fitted her -- a real ruby red Rubens. Tall. Her father, Charles Henry Side, was very tall and slim, Norman-shaped, so if you or any of your off spring are tall and angular you owe it to those two or to Joe Beates, the Irish Dragoon -- unless, of course, there are tall genes on the other, non-Thompson, side of your inheritance. As a young woman Mother had been slim but was always heavy as far back as I remember. Voluble. A great reader and a copious writer. She wrote to her mother every week for decades and to all seven of her children all her life as often as they answered her. Also to her sisters and her daughters-in-law. Offer thanks to Ruby Alice if you enjoy a flair for writing, if you prefer the pen to sword.
One Saturday about a month before Christmas when I was eleven years old I first realized how fine a conversationalist Mother was. I was at the large kitchen table chopping citron helping her prepare the Christmas pudding. I asked her why it was made so ling in advance and why it was always referred to as THE Christmas pudding even though she had mad some half dozen. (I was a bearcat at asking questions and must have been an eternal nuisance.) Mother explained that the pudding was made so long in advance because it improved with age. Indeed we ate Plum pudding New Year's Day and thereafter. She explained that THE Christmas pudding sounded more important than Christmas puddings and was referred partly a matter of custom and she offered several other examples such as getting a hair cut rather than getting hairs cuts or buying a two-cent apple rather than a two-cents apple.