H - University of Illinois

Nally rood's (Success
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HAVE seen Sally Sod.
"Then there is a Sally Sod?"
I "Who is she?"
"What is she like?"
"Is she as jolly as she writes?"
"Is she a Success?"
Not so fast—please. You shall "know
all" as quickly as it can be told.
Sally Sod is as real as you yourself and
all the facts in her story, "One Month
Out of My Life," are true as true. Her
every-day name is Mrs. Elwyn Green ,
or to use her personal signature, Lorretto
Hughes Green. And she lives in Wayne
County, Michigan. She is just as full of sprightly goodnature
as you would guess from her story and is ten times
a success as the mother of ten sturdy, wholesome, delightful
children who are bubbling over with rollicking fun and
who are nevertheless making good in school.
Success? Why, you feel it as far as you can see and
"feel" the house. But it is success of a definite and
specific kind. The kind about which Danny, in Four
Ducks on a Pond , told Tad. He said, "Everyone . . .
would be ready with a tale or a song or a gay bit of fiddling
—each one sharing something fine or foolish . . .
There's seldom poverty of heart in Ireland." It is family
success—home success—success of the very best sort.
Sally Sod sailed under no false pretenses. She told us
all frankly, "Ours is not a Success Story. We still live on
a rented farm with positively no modern conveniences,
either in barn or house."
So I was not surprised , that Sunday afternoon , when
there loomed up out of level, bare, March fields, a modest,
shingled house, guiltless of porch, bay-window, sun-parlor,
or other apology to the public. It stood plain , straight,
uncompromising, humble and proud of it. But it had one
beauty. It was bursting with bloom at every window,
the bloom of childhood. In another moment they were
around me, a bevy of little children ; modest, but friendly,
smiling, unafraid; fairly prancing with eagerness and high
spirits. I had a guard of honor through the mud and up
to the back steps where Mr. and Mrs. Green awaited me,
"Is this Sally Sod?"
Not one breathing second was she the disconcerted
hostess, surprised and caught off guard. A warm grip,
an eager flow of words, a torrent of laughter. And I was
fairly swept into the house on the wave of it; through the
dining-room with its long, long table, a regular harvesthand
table ; into the little parlor. And when we were
seated, with most of the little folks standing, the room
was furnished as no interior decorator could do it, damask
of pink-and-white cheeks with the roses of red blood in
them, jewels in sparkling eyes.
And how we laughed! I never laughed so much to the
square inch in all my life. Just why? I've tried to recall.
But the little jokes melt away into thin air,—too fine to
be caught in the mesh of words. Very little jokes passed
muster, sparkled and "went over big" in that atmosphere.
There was something magic in the air.
You see, Sally Sod is Irish on both sides. "Grandparents
right from the bogs," she said. So now we understand.
It is impossible for her to speak without giving a
quizzical twist to her words. And the children , born and
bred to humor, are always read y with a come-back.
Their father, a Yankee by birth , has a merry twinkle in
his blue eyes,—born there and kept always busy.
So they laugh ,—the Sally Sod household. And the
house is full of their laughter. You feel somehow that
little elfin laughs of the past are perched all over the ceiling
and above the windows. If you ask me, I think this is the
secret and heart of the whole story of their success.
"Laugh a lot?" Sally Sod repeated when we caught
our respective breaths. "I'll say so. I wish you could
hear and see this outfit of mine when they are shut in for
a time. You surely would hear some rib-crackers. Every
last one of them is a regular old Fulla Pepp."
"Ma , she's writing it down ," shouted nine-year-old
Jessie from the other end of the table. She was reading
upside down as fast as I could write.
"0, we have a circus here all the time," Sally Sod went
on. "I suppose I could make something of it if only I
had the sense to appreciate it. I've just finished writing
'The Diary of a Distracted Mother.' I bought a big
tablet and wrote it full. And I still have more to say.
"You certainly have found me just as I am and at once
both at my best and my worst. I say my best because I
have my entire family to back me up; my worst because
of being caught off guard.
"And here are my ten. Robert, 14, is my chief executive.
He has just taken a prize in a declamation contest
and won a gold medal. But he's so dignified he doesn't
like to have me speak about it. He's planning to be an
electrical engineer.
"Mervin , 12, is our joke-smith , our clown, the cause of
our greatest laughs. He's the. boy who is going to rubberize
his Father's milk checks. His ambition is to drive a
truck. He has just won the seventh grade spell-down
which made him grade champion and brought him a fine
modern dictionary.
"Glad ys is eleven and mothers all the children. She is
a prize-winner, too. She spelled down the fifth grade last
year and won a dictionary with a 'G' in gold letters."
FLAXEN-HAIRED, pearly-teethed "Gladys—withthe—joke."
She was standing a little apart, bubbling
over with amusement. It danced out of her eyes and rippled
out in her voice. And finally, with a little coaxing, the secret
popped all the way out in one breathless rush.
"I knew Ma wrote those Sally Sod letters. She didn 't
tell us. But I guessed it, 'cause Ma had counted up what
she had done in August. And I knew no other mother
had. So I guessed it." And Gladys laughed—such a
rippling little laugh, mischief darting from her eyes.
"Jessie, nine , comes next. All the babies love her.
She's a good scout and a born little mother.
"Marian , eight , is a dyed-in-the-woo! flapper." At
which Marian looked up all smiles and dimples.
Next came seven-year-old Evelyn, the Brownie, brown
hair, brown eyes, brown skin , a real nut-brown maid.
"Little Miss I-Don't-Care," said her Mother.
Then Cecil, the five-year-old beauty, with a turned-up
nose and wonderful golden hair with a permanent wave.
"Next is Farmer John , my 'pride and joy. This boy
was born under the worst possible circumstances. I had
whooping cough together with seven of the children when
he was born. He weighed only four and a half pounds at
By GRACE FARRIJSSGTOH GRAT
BALLY BOD'S CROWN OF SUCCESS
—HER CHILDREN — AND BELOW,
SALLY SOD HERSELF
first; was raised in a market
basket till he was seven
months old. The first few
years he was very delicate.
Our doctor took such an interest
in him that he said:
'When you call me, tell me
if it's John and I'll burn up
my little old car to get to
him.' Now, at four, John's
quite a boy."
And so he is. A
sturdy, squareshouldered
1 i tTl e
fellow with a sweet
serious face.
"Frances, two
years old, is 'Pa's -
baby.' Though for
the matter of that,
they're all father's
babies. They'reall
crazy about him.
Elwyn, my Husband"
(we capitalize
Husband because
that's what
Sally Sod did with
her voice) "says it's
my fault because I
tell the children 'how nice Pa is.
"Our little 'Ma-Ma Doll,' the baby, is Laura Nadine—
sweetest of the bunch."
Then hastily, lest some one should be hurt: "Of course,
they've all had their turns at being 'the sweetest.' But
their turns have been rather short.
"You can see that all I've ever had a chance to do is to
raise children. I have six in school and four at home.
What I told you in*One Month Out of My Life ' is absolutely
true and is a sample of what's happening here all
the time.
«/~\F COURSE, my work runs largely to 'eats.' I'm keep-
^ ing house for twelve healthy, hearty people. And
every one of them has a good out-of-door appetite to be
appeased three times a day. My cake-baking averages
around five cakes a week; I peel an average of a peck of
potatoes daily and everything goes in the same proportion.
"My 'daily dozen' and forearm developer is mixing up
14 loaves of bread.
"Our weekly washing usually consists of one big family
wash and three smaller ones. One week there were 42
dresses and in one single wash there were 22. I put them
on the line and looked them over. Nineteen I had made
myself.
"I suppose you are wondering, 'What about the ironing?'
I do my ironing as some people can fruit. The
cold pack method for mine. Lots of the washing is folded
at the line and put away. I iron only the best clothes,
school dresses, shirts and'table cloths. My little girls are
learning to iron their everyday clothes.
"Then there are the trips that I make. Some to town ;
some to mill; some on errands; some to get milk cans. I
fi gure that these save my husband's time as I take the car
and make them all during his working hours.
"Now that my children are growing older they can do
lots of the smaller jobs which leaves me more time for the
big ones. And I think you will agree with me that it is
lime I need. Mervin , here, is quite a cook. 0, but you
should hear 'the bunch' sing at their work!"
"Yes," piped up Gladys-with-the-joke. "And Ma
always says, 'Slop that groaning.'"
When the laugh subsided Sally Sod went on unperturbed.
"I don't want this to sound like a long drawn
out wail of misery, because life always has its own compensations.
When I work my hardest , my little ones
(CONTINUED ON PAGE 375)