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was collecting Rickenbackers. Fred laughed about this, and so did the rest of the family. Fred had bought it for spare parts. These automobiles were becoming extinct.
    My part in family duties, as outlined by Verna before I came to California, was keeping my room clean and baking two cakes a week. I had brought with me a file of Mother’s cake recipes—Oregonians in those days were great cake bakers because cake was a Depression luxury that usually could be assembled from whatever was in the cupboard. I am ashamed to say I did not always bake the two cakes a week expected of me, but I am sure I baked at least one and usually filled in with brownies or apple crisp.
    One day Verna brought home an electric mixer, which I found fascinating when the batter rose higher and higher as the beaters spun. This wasgoing to be the lightest, fluffiest cake I had ever baked, a cake that would dazzle the family with my skill. Unfortunately, when I removed the cake from the oven, it exhaled all the air I had beaten into it and sank into a flat, dry slab. I tried, not very successfully, to lubricate it with butter-and-powdered-sugar frosting. The family was game and ate it anyway. As Mother said, Verna always did have a sweet tooth.
    That cake was not the only kitchen failure that year. Virginia’s home economics teacher required girls to cook at home recipes they had studied in class and to bring a note from a parent telling of the result. One afternoon Virginia baked a fragrant chocolate cake, but when she took it from the oven, it looked more like fudge than cake. Together we studied the recipe and discovered that Virginia had forgotten to include flour. She was as crestfallen as her cake.
    â€œNever mind,” said Fred. “We’ll eat it like candy.” Unfortunately, Virginia’s cake did not taste like fudge; it tasted like Crisco. Only Fred managed to eat a piece in an attempt to cheer his daughter.
    Mother Clapp, who spent most of the day sitting in a low rocker in her room reading her Bible, crept downstairs late afternoons to start dinner. I often joined her to make salad and toset the table. Mother Clapp was such a quiet woman we found little to say to each other, but I felt she was friendly toward me. I enjoyed sharing peaceful moments with her as I laid out the red-and-white place mats and set the table with Blue Willow dishes.
    Dinner conversation was cheerful, centering on the events at the high school and junior college. One day Verna brought home an example of her day’s work, a can of soy loaf given her by a man who was using the school library to research soybeans, which he felt had undiscovered possibilities. Material for automobile tires, for example. The can was opened, the soybean loaf was heated. We bravely prepared to eat the whole thing because Fred did not approve of waste. Then Atlee threw down his fork and said, “Why don’t you say it? It’s just like dog food.” He was so right we couldn’t help laughing, and Guard finished the loaf for us.
    Laughter at the dinner table was a new experience for me. My parents often smiled, but laugh out loud, never. The Depression had left us with little to laugh about. And then one day a letter arrived from home. Verna, Mother told me, had written that it was so discouraging to come home from the library to a house with carpets that needed vacuuming and bouquets of dead flowersgathering dust in the living room. Mother said I must run the vacuum cleaner and empty out wilted flowers. I was willing to do this, but why, I wondered, did Verna involve Mother? I loved Verna and was hurt, but after that, when I vacuumed my room, I vacuumed the living room as well. Verna acted as if this were not unusual, and I was too busy being happy to brood about my shortcomings. I had Paul to think about.
    When the first issue of the school paper came out, there on the front page was the editor’s picture. Paul. He had not said a word to me about