My mother is the baby who sleeps soundly in her father’s arms, as her mother and other relatives look on fondly. The candelabra (minus the little shades) is now in my son’s house. I’ve tried to figure out the foods on the table, besides the centerpiece of apples, and I think that’s a glazed ham on the right, a mound of mashed potatoes in the farthest bowl, and maybe slices of toast in the left foreground. Napkins are still lying on plates, so they hadn’t begun to enjoy the dinner at this point. Read their story in The Girl Who Talked Too Much.
Ann Dickinson Sargent 