Another V. B. R. Story

Many years ago, while studying a work in a college literature class, the professor pointed out that long after the books were published the writer took his pen to his hardbound copy, making changes and corrections. If I could remember which author this was, I could find on the internet a photograph of a page from the book complete with the scribbled additions.

Given this, perhaps I’m in good company. I hesitated to publish V. B. R.: My Mother’s Story because I knew it was incomplete. But there came a time to decide that I could sit on it another half-dozen years or go with what I had. Part of the hesitation came from my realization that there were so many questions that I had never asked, so I simply did not have that information. Another thing was that I don’t have as good a memory as I thought I had. Little details from events that I had either heard about or in some cases, been there for, escaped me. On the other hand, Mother had a remarkable memory.

In cleaning out a closet this week, I came across a notebook with notes from a trip to Bella Vista, Arkansas, we took with Mother in 1999, when she was 83 years old. By this time macular degeneration had taken most of her sight. When my husband mentioned a town we were going through, Mother said “That’s not too far from Mena. I’d love to see if that restaurant is still there.” So we went to Mena. In 1928 or 1929 she had accompanied her Grandma Christopher who was to spend the summer in Mena for health reasons. Mother’s uncle had driven them there and settled them in a house that had what were called housekeeping rooms.

I do not have Mother’s sense of direction. Can you imagine being able to direct someone to a town in another state - without benefit of a map, or sight to read it, or the ability to see the landmarks - that you have not been to in seventy years? Following Mother’s directions we drove around the town as she told us about the places she remembered: the park, the block where the house had been, the Christian Church they attended on Sundays, the library, and the post office.

And yes, we found the restaurant. The Skyline Café that opened in 1922 was still there! Mother had such fun telling the server that it was her 83^rd birthday, and she had eaten there when she was only twelve of thirteen years old, and was so pleased to find that it was still there. As she had done seventy years earlier, Mother dined on fried chicken, then ordered ice cream for dessert. Although she declared it a good meal, later she remarked to us that it wasn’t as good as she remembered it being. Then with her usual insight, she said something about things often being better in our memory than in reality.

It was good to find my notes and read what I had written about the trip, but that reality pales in comparison to the memory of Mother’s delight in finding that on her 83^rd birthday, the Skyline Café was still open.