First there was Mamie who took care of me. She had white hair, and my mother liked her. Mamie was a good memory for my mother.

Then there was Martha whom my mother must have fired because Martha had boyfriends over.

I did not remember either Mamie nor Martha, but later, my mother must have pointed Martha out to me. Later, copying my mother, if I saw Martha in the street, I looked away as if she did not exist.

And then there was Margaret who came to live with us. I remember Margaret. She took care of us and the house in exchange for room and board and fifty cents a week. She was sixteen years old when she came. She was an excellent housekeeper. Although my sister Eleanor had good feelings about Margaret, I did not. Do not. Certainly, she was on the side of good, but I remember discipline, and I don’t remember love.

In my very young years, I did not even have a passing acquaintance with my mother. I remember being in our kitchen – I was probably two years old at most — and I was looking at this woman who was in our house and puzzling, “Who is she? What is she doing here in our kitchen?”I did not know she was my mother.

When I was about three, my mother started to woo me. She would tell me I was pretty and give me white chocolate. I disbelieved the flattery and accepted the white chocolate, but I would not give in to my mother.

She would steal a kiss from me. “Don’t kiss me,” I said, and I would wipe off her kiss vigorously.

Then she would say, “Well, then, give it back.” Thinking I was getting the better of her, I would give it back.

I would be in the store, and on cue, for certain customers, as if it were oh so cute, I would say: “I LOVE my Daddy. ” Then I’d shake my head emphatically and finish by saying, “but I don’t like my mommy.”

My poor mother would smile through it all.

Later I will tell you how my mother did earn my affection, yet, all in all, I felt my father was more like a mother to me than my mother.