WERE NOT TWO SONS ENOUGH?
                   by Eugene Hutchinson Mallory 2


     After that eerie evening when my child's illusion of
father's invulnerability began to crumble and fade so did my
real father.

     I quote here from my mother's journal written five years
later, "He seems well in many ways, but he is harder to interest
in anything and finds so little to entertain himself. His eyes
are bad and he is confused and bothered and complains of being
dizzy and has arm aches."

     "I feel sorry for him many times. He never allowed himself
any fun and has fewer resources for pleasure than anyone I know.
He does not complain and is good and kind and more gentle than
he used to be and makes an effort to please me and is never
arrogant with me anymore. I don't feel quite happy or satisfied
with his condition, as much his mental condition as his
physical. He has no pep and does not want to exert himself in
much of anyways."

     A Mallory who loses his arrogance is in bad shape.

     My mother was subject to recurring episodes of illness, the
apparent result of an ulcer operation that had never really been
successful although it was done by the great Dr. Will Mayo
himself.

     Early in 1931 one of these illnesses was suddenly fatal. It
was a terrible blow to us all and father just gave up on his
life. His empire was largely intact and he had two teenage sons,
myself and my brother Judson three years younger.

     Were not two sons enough to hold him to his life? No, I
came home from high school one day and found him weeping feebly
in his brother Ben's big Buick and was informed that he had
abandoned his sons and his empire to Ben's care and
guardianship.

     The only thing I can remember father doing for himself
after that was to buy a new mattress, the best you could buy.
The only time he really left it was to sit, staring blankly or
to shuffle up and down the same weary block. Or ask to be driven
up and down three or four miles of highway, always the same
miles.

     These enterprises soon stopped and he just lay on that
mattress and wandered lost in the ruined corridors of his mind.
In 1933 he finally found an exit from that dreadful labyrinth.

     It was the door marked with a skull and bones. That was
about all there was left of him anyway and he passed through
that door and left us.

     Left his sons stunned with pity for his sufferings, but
scarred and angry at the pain the manner of his going had
brought to them.

     A lifetime has passed since this imperial judgemental man
died. His empire is gone. Airplanes land where his cattle grazed
and an ugly warehouse stands where his magnificent trees grew.

     In that fullness of time, his sons have reached an age
where they must anticipate yet another judgement.

     This necessity calls to mind an ancient legend that has
been with me since childhood. When we come into the world
destiny offers us each two cups, one of sweet and one bitter. We
each may drink as deeply as we please, but always an equal
amount from each cup before we leave the world again.

     I see myself as an old man seated at a table, my head face
down and my arms out spread on the table top. Before me are the
fateful cups overturned and empty.

     As I see myself, so the thought comes clearly.

     "Look at that old fool, and he has spilled more than he
managed to drink."