Time Enough For Love

DA CAPO-IV

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27 March 1917 Greg.

Beloved Family,

Repeat of Basic Message: I got here three years too early-2 August 1916-but still wish to be picked up exactly ten T-years after drop, 2 August 1926-repeat six. Rendezvous points and alternatives from basic date as before. Please impress on Dora that this results from bad data I gave her and is not her fault.

I'm having a marvelous time. I got my business cleaned up and then got in touch with my first family by looking up my grandfather (Ira Johnson, Ira) and got acquainted with him first-and with the aid of a horrendous lie and a most fortunate family resemblance, Gramp is convinced that I am an unregistered son of his (deceased) brother. I didn't suggest this; it's his own idea. Consequently it's solid-and now I'm a "long-lost cousin" in my first home. Not living there, but welcome, which is very nice.

Let me give a rundown on the family, since all of you are descended from three of them: Gramp, Mama, and Woodie.

Gramp is described in that junk Justin has been cutting down to size. No changes, Justin, save that instead of being two meters tall and carved out of granite, Gramp is almost exactly my size. I am spending every minute with him that he will let me, which usually means playing chess with him several times a week.

Mama: Take Laz and Lor and add five kilos in the best places, then add fifteen T-years and a big slug of dignity. (Quit quivering your goddamn chins!) Add hair down to her waist but always coiled up on top. I don't actually know what Mama does look like other than her head and hands became of the curious custom here of wearing clothes all over at all times. And I do mean "all over." I know that Mama has slender ankles because I once caught a glimpse. But I would never dare stare at them; Gramp would toss me out of the house.

Papa: He is away now. I had forgotten what he looks like-I had forgotten all their faces except Gramp (who uses the same face I do!) But I've seen pictures of Papa and he looks a bit like President Teddy Roosevelt- that's "Theodore," Athene, not "Franklin"-in case you have a picture in your gizzards.

Nancy: Laz and Lor as of three standard years before I left. Not as many freckles and very dignified-except when it slips. She is acutely aware of (young) males, and I think Gramp is urging Mama to tell her about the Howard setup at once, so that she'll be sure to marry in the Families.

Carol: Laz and Lor again but two years younger than Nancy. She is as interested in boys as is Nancy-but frustrated; Mama has her on a. short leash. Quivers her chin, which Mama ignores.

Brian Junior: Dark hair, looks more like Papa. Rising young capitalist. Has a newspaper route which be combines with lighting gas streetlamps. Has a contract to deliver advertising handbills, for the local moving-picture theater which he farms out to his younger brother and four other boys and pays them in tickets to the theater and keeps some for his own use and sells the rest at a discount (four cents instead of five) at school. Has a vending bar for soda pop (a sweet, bubbly drink) on the corner in the summers but plans to franchise this to his younger brother this coming summer; he has another enterprise lined up. (As I recall, Brian got rich quite young.)

Let me explain something about our family. They are prosperous by here-&-now standards-but do not show it except that they live in a large house in a good neighborhood. Not only is Papa a successful businessman, but also this is a time when the Howard endowment of babies is substantial in terms of buying power-and Mama has had eight already. To all of you, being a "Howard" means a genetic heritage and a tradition-but here-&-now it means cash, money for babies-a stock-breeding scheme and we are the stock.

I think Papa must be investing the money Mama makes by having Howard babies; they certainly are not spending it-and this accords with my own dim memories. I don't know what was done for my siblings, but I received getting-started money when I first married- money I had not expected and which had nothing to do with the Howard endowments my first wife earned by being fertile and willing. Since I married during an economic stalemate, this made a big difference. Back to the kids- The boys not only do work; they have to work-or they have nothing but clothes and food. The girls receive very small cash allowances but are required to do housework and to help with the younger children. This is because it is very difficult for a girl to earn money in this society-but a boy who will get out and try has endless opportunities. (This will change before the century is over, but in 1917 it is true.) All the Smith kids work at home (Mama hires a laundress one day a week, that's all), but a boy (or girl) who finds outside cash-money work is relieved of housework to that extent. Nor does he have to "pay back" this time off; he keeps what he earns and spends it or saves it, the latter being encouraged by Papa matching such savings.

If you think Papa and Mama are intentionally making moneygrubbers of their offspring, you are right.

George: Ten T-years old, Brian Jr.'s junior partner, shadow, and stooge. This will end in a few years with George busting Brian one in the mouth.

Marie: eight and a freckled tomboy. Mama is having a difficult time trying to make a "lady" out of her. (But Mama's gentle stubbornness-and biology-will win. Marie grew up to be the beauty of the family, with beaux underfoot-and I hated them as there had been a period when I was her pet. Marie was the only one of my siblings I was close to; it is possible to be lonely in a large family, and I was-except for Gramp, always, and Marie, for a short time.)

Woodrow Wilson Smith-still short of five by several months and as offensive a brat as was ever allowed to grow up. I am appalled to be forced to admit that this stinking little snot is the weed which grew up to be humanity's fairest flower, namely, Ol' Buddy Boy himself. So far he has spat in my hat when it was presumably out of his reach on the cloak rack in the hail, referred to me with various disparagements, of which "Here's that dude in the derby again!" is the mildest. He kicked me in the stomach when I tried to pick him up (my error; I didn't want to touch him but thought I should break myself of irrational queasiness), and accused me of cheating at chess when in fact he was cheating-he called my attention to something out the window, then moved my queen one square, and I caught him at it and called him on it. And so on, ad nauseam.

But I continue to play chess with him because: (a) I am determined to get along with all my first family for the short time I will be here; and (b) Woodie will play chess at any opportunity, and Gramp and I are the only chessplayers around who will put up with his poisonous ways. (Gramp clobbers him as necessary; I have no such privilege. But if I were not afraid to find out what would happen, I might strangle him. What would happen? Would half of human history disappear and the rest be changed beyond recognition? No, "paradox" is a null word; the fact that I am here proves that I will keep my temper long enough to get shut of the little beast.)

Richard: three and as affectionate as Woodie is difficult. Likes to sit on my lap and be told stories. His favorite is about two redheaded twins named Laz and Lor who fly a magic "airship" through the sky. I feel a tender sadness about Dickie, for he will (did) die quite young, assaulting a place called Iwo Jima.

Ethel: a heavenly smile at one end and a wet diaper at the other. Short on conversation.

That's my (our) family in 1917. I expect to stay in K.C. until Papa returns-soon, now-then leave; some of this is a strain on me, pleasant as most of it is. I may look them up when this war is over-but probably not; I don't want to crowd my welcome.

To make the above clear I should explain some of the customs here. Until Papa gets home, my status has to be through Gramp as a friend he plays chess with; it can't be anything else even though he-and perhaps Mama- believe that I am Uncle Ned's son. Why? Because I am a "young" bachelor, and by the local rules a married woman cannot have a young bachelor as a friend, particularly when her husband is out of town. The taboo is so firm I don't dare give even the appearance of violating it...on Mama's account. Nor would she encourage me to. Nor would Gramp permit it.

So I'm welcome in my own home only if I go there to see Gramp. If I telephone, I must ask for him. And so on.

Oh, it's permissible, on a rainy day, for me to offer a ride home to members of the Smith family at church. I am permitted to do almost anything for the kids as long as I don't "spoil" them-which Mama defines as spending much more than five cents on one of them. Last Saturday I was allowed to take six of them on a picnic in my automobile carriage. I am teaching Brian to operate it. My, interest in the kids is considered understandable by Mama and by Gramp because of my "lonely" and "deprived" childhood as an "orphan."

The one thing I must never do is to be alone with Mama. I don't go inside my own home unless publicly accompanied by Gramp; the neighbors would notice. I am meticulous about it; I won't risk causing Mama trouble with a tribal taboo.

I am writing this at my apartment, on a printing machine you would not believe, and must stop in order to take it downtown and photoreduce it twice, then etch it and laminate it and seal it for Delay Mail and deliver it to a drop-which kills a whole day, as L must use a rented lab and destroy intermediate stages as I go; this is not something I dare leave in an apartment to which a janitor has a key. When I get back from South America I'll make my own lab setup, one I can carry in an automobile. Paved roads will be more common this coming decade and I expect to travel that way. But I want to continue sending these letters and by as many Delay Mail drops as possible, in hope that at least one will last through the centuries and reach you. As Justin put it, the real problem is to get one to last through just the coming three centuries-I'll keep trying.

All my love to all of you,

Lazarus