To make the adjustment to higher learning as easy as possible for me, my parents packed me off to Pomona, a good, small, coeducational college in a country town. Father, with his usual studied approach to a problem, digested the brochures of countless colleges and universities and carefully selected one with high academic standing, high moral tone, ant no sororities. He was afraid I might not be bid to a sorority and would consequently have my life warped.

By the time I was seventeen, however, it would have been hard to warp my life. I had tossed off most of my adolescent complexes and so, apparently had my contemporaries. In college - such is my trusting opinion, anyway - I stood pretty solidly on my own personality, without either excess support or excess unbalance from my crutches.

I was no raring, tearing charmer, but I don't mind saying I even began appealing to brainless men. In fact, Father says that for a year or so there, he doesn't think I had a nibble from anyone with an I.Q. over seventy - judging by their conversations.

But, being completely perverse, I promptly started admiring mentality, a tendency that got completely out of hand, in fact. During my junior year at the age of nineteen, I fell flat on my face, with frightful coronary symptoms, for a professor. He never had a peaceful moment, poor man, until I had him at the altar three years later. From then on - he never had a peaceful moment until he escaped via the divorce court.

He was such a nice man, quite undeserving of his fate. A British colonial, born in Burma, he looked, to my misty eyes anyway, exactly like Clive of India (à la Ronald Colman). He made some lasting contributions to me for which he got little substantial return. His mother gave me her magnificent recipe for Indian curry, and he, being not only proper British but also a professor of English, reformed my manners and my grammar considerably. He also taught me a couple of colorful bad words in Burmese and Hindustani.

From my encounter with him, I also learned the comforting fact that no one dies of a broken heart. Put together and given a reasonable rest cure, an old ticker will get you into almost as much fascinating double as a brand-new one.

I must have left some sort of an impression on him, too. I know I improved his taste in neckties, and apparently I didn't embitter him permanently against amputees. After our divorce, anyway, he started beauing a one-armed woman.

Grandma couldn't get over my snagging a man, and she thought I ought to be committed to an institution when I let him off the hook. "What are you thinking of!" she gasped. "What did they teach you in college? You ought to know that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. Besides," she added as a pious but unconvincing afterthought, "divorces are wicked. Still - he isn't a citizen. That would have parted you eventually. Kings and such like - always having to call on God to save them."

Exactly what Grandma meant I am not sure. she was an isolationist. It was her studied opinion that only sixth-generation Americans were admitted to Heaven, and even then, it helped outwit the red tape at the Gate if they happened to be her blood kin.


ON REGISTRATION DAY at college, the head of the women's physical education department made me a tempting offer. "Would you like to sign up for an hour of rest every day in place of required physical education courses? We'll allocate full credit."

Today if such a pleasant proposition were put to me, I would not only say "yes" without hesitation, I'd bring my own pillow and offer to major in the subject. But since I was still a little huffy about myself, I assured her that with some leeway in selection I could undoubtedly fulfill my physical education requirements, if not to the letter, at least to the spirit of the law. Skipping formal gymnastics and team sports - which all my friends regarded as rank privilege - I concentrated on swimming, riflery, archery, tennis, and riding. With the exception of tennis, the limitations of which I have explained, all these sports were very well adapted to my abilities. I captained my class swimming team and earned part of my more frivolous expenses at college, life-guarding the girls' swimming pool during open hours. I was also on the archery team.

In riflery I was mediocre and did fairly well only in the prone position. If I were ever threatened by a fiend and had a rifle handy, I'd have to ask him politely to wait to be shot until I flung myself flat on my stomach.

I never approximated the career of National Velvet, but horseback riding became my favorite recreational activity. Prior to college, I was on cozy terms with one burro and two kindly but senile retired horses owned by a rancher friend of ours. Freshman year, however, I signed up for riding classes. Miss Margaret Pooley, the instructress, had never confronted a problem like me, but she was imaginative and took a very kindly interest in working out a technique that made allowances for my physical limitations. Under her guidance, I developed an equestrian skill that gave the impression of good form while breaking most of the time-honored rules of horsemanship.

Also during that first year, thanks to my friendship with Marion Cox, an Arizona girl, who I suspect could talk to horses in their own language, I fell into the Horsy Set. This bunch of boys and girls, many of them from Western ranches, and some of them just crazy on purpose, practically slept with their boots on. They took me in hand.

I think we'd gladly have occupied box stalls and munched a straight diet of oats. We arose at odd and inhuman hours and rode before breakfast, and blissfully we cantered around in die moonlight. We wore our riding clothes right into the sacred halls of learning. I suspect we smelled habitually like an essence that Saks Fifth would probably call "Fatal Stable" or "L'Amour Equin." Saturdays we made worshipful pilgrimages to various near-by horsey meccas - Carnation Farm Stables, Kellogg's Arabian Horse Farm, Diamond Bar Ranch, etc. We weren't even on nodding terms with any of the owners of California's flashy horseflesh, but we were chummy with all the grooms. We were privileged to pat some very aristocratic flanks. When a horse show was scheduled anywhere in Southern California, our little crew, without owning so much as a Shetland pony between us, usually had exhibitors' badges and occupied complimentary boxes. These were presented to us by some softhearted hostler who figured I'd never be able to climb up on the grandstand. None of us discouraged such gentle instincts. In fact, I could go becomingly fragile whenever the situation seemed to demand it - sighing and lifting my crutches wearily, as if they weighed two tons apiece. Father would have slain me.

Riding is an excellent sport for an amputee although it does necessitate special techniques. To start with, there's the elementary problem of getting on the horse. I usually mount by having some friendly weight-lifter give me a leg up. Frequently I use an orthodox box; or with one supporting crutch, I can step my foot into the stirrup and swing up. The flashiest way for a uniped to mount is with a flying leap - in the manner of a cowboy in a B Western. I never was able to do this impressive little stunt on anything higher than a pony.

One-legged and crutchless, once in the saddle, I stay there (Heaven helping) until my ride is over, unless accompanied by a stalwart companion, ready to assist on the remount. It is impractical to carry along a crutch.

I have no knee grip. Posting a trot, therefore, is not a sound practice. I learned to approximate the rhythm and made a poor pretense at posting by lifting my weight from my one stirrup. Probably the most sensible management of the trot is to abandon the flat saddle and ride a Stock or a McClellan and sit the gait, cowboy style.

Even better is to ride any saddle - English, ArmyX or Western - but put it on a five-gaited horse and then rack or canter, avoiding the trot altogether. Now and again a so-called "slow-gaited" horse, a natural single-footer, turns up. That is a splendid mount for a one-legged rider, especially for a beginner who can't cope with the stylish intelligence about signals that usually characterizes a five-gaited horse.

So, pick a single-footer or a five-gaiter, but always make careful preliminary survey of his withers and spine. A one-legger requires a horse with a good sturdy ridge for a backbone. If not, the saddle tends to slip when all the body weight is supported in one stirrup instead of divided between two. Every stable boy who confronts a Single-boot for the first time will argue this point, as he leads out his most dejected nag. An obviously handicapped person always has to fight for a decent mount. I have ridden some bizarre plugs, jovially called "horses" by their custodians. The uninitiated groom will invariably insist, "The way I cinch a saddle, it cant slip." Hah - many a saddle cinched so it can't slip has gone perverse all of a sudden and slid off, taking me right along with it!

However, a nice sedate easy-gaited horse with a backbone that will hold a saddle reliably can give an amputee a good safe ride. The extra stirrup should be removed, for when it bounces against the horse's flanks it is likely to make him nervous. Also it is just as well to avoid double reins. Both a curb and a snaffle require two hands. It is better practice to use just a curb, and handle the reins in one hand, leaving the other free for that most ignominious breach-of-riding etiquette - pulling leather. Making quick turns at a canter is likely to upset balance. It is far less degrading to push on the saddle with a free hand to maintain equilibrium than it is to fly off into space. Space is notoriously solid at the bottom, as I know from coming down hard on it many times.

An amputee who is bright in the head leaves all fancy work on horseback to-bipeds. It is half-witted for even a normal person to show off on a horse, and it is stark madness for a one-legger. I know - I'm a reformed maniac myself.

In returning to the campus stables from the bridle paths in the foothills, we went directly by the college inn and the dormitories. Since these two blocks were paved, we weren't, of course, permitted to flash by at a canter. Sensibly enough, we were required to walk our horses in this rather populated and busy area. This being a pretty poky regulation, allowing no opportunity to startle bystanders, some of us had a rather wicked little trick for enlivening things. We made clicking noises deep in our throats and at the same time kept the horses' heads reined high. This precarious practice excited our mounts into lifting their hooves prettily, prancing and dancing sideways. We thereby gave the impression to the awed pedestrians on the safe sidewalks, of magnificent management of a herd of wild stallions recently roped on the open range.

One day I rode through this parading ground alone and, as usual, I did my quiet bit of ventriloquism. My horse, normally gentle and long suffering, decided apparently that the time had come, not only to tell me off but to throw me off. He opened his mouth, showed his dentures, and whinnied a noisy impertinent remark that even I who can't speak "horse" understood perfectly. "O.K., smarty-pants, you asked for it!"

He lifted up his rear end three times, and I described a parabola in the air and landed on my fanny, in the middle of an intersection. Man's best friend then turned his head and with a brief horselaugh, hot-hoofed it for the stables. Wise guy - he knew that even if I could catch him, I couldn't remount. If only I had been blessed with a nice little concussion at that point and had collapsed into a comfortable coma, everything would have been dandy. But not me: Except for a certain indelicate numbness that implied I might have a lost weak end, I wasn't wounded a whit.

Anyone else could have arisen and fled the scene of such ignominy - but although I arose, there I stood on one foot. To hop away, flapping my wings like an embittered bird, would only have heaped hot clinker on my already flaming embarrassment.

People screamed. Old ladies and gents leaped out of their rocking chairs on the porch of the inn, and students raced across the campus. I didn't even have the virtue of being funny. Nobody laughed except one dear, dear friend who went into a rollicking display of disgusting good cheer. I felt like Old Hogan's Goat tied to the railroad track, seeing all those chugging rescuers closing in on me.

Not one of them shouted with outrage, "That dangerous wild bronco threw her! - which, God for-give, he did technically. It was like a horrible ghostly visitation of my old roller-skating days. All the good people lamented in chorus, "That poor, poor girl fell off".

Just in the nick of time I was spirited away. A car came toward me, and with all the savoir-faire of a confirmed hobo, I flung out my thumb. The car braked to a stop and I hopped in.

"Hiyah, Babe," the stranger said, and leered at me. He wasn't local talent. He looked like a graduate of Alcatraz, now that I ponder on his charms, but at that moment he was Galahad on a white charger. When I got to the stables, the horse was quietly munching hay. When he saw me, however, he paused long enough to laugh his fool head off.

"That'll learn herd he remarked ungrammatically to a mare in the next stall. He was right, too - it learned me good - but he got his come-uppance. He didn't get to finish his vitamins. The stable boy, to discipline both me and the horse, promptly hoisted me up on him again, and I walked sedately back by the inn. I didn't hand him my usual line of deep-throated chatter this time, however. In fact, my conversational wit with horses from that day hence has been limited to "Nice horsy! Nice horsy!"

When I wasn't out courting the horses or compromising the faculty, I did the usual things that lead to an A.B. degree. My major academic interests were in sociology and in English. I figured I'd do the world good with one and do myself good with the other. I didn't distinguish myself scholastically. When the faculty members sit around on a cold winters night nostalgically reminiscing about students who have made their years of teaching richly worth while, my name is not mentioned. I am more generous with them. When I sit around on cold winter nights reminiscing about the teachers who have influenced my life, there are several, that I didn't even marry, who always come in for praise. In spite of the recorder's office's convincing evidence to the contrary, I got quite a bit out of college.

During those four years I learned a good many odds and ends that were not in the curriculum but which helped me to get ahead in the world. For one thing, it was in college that I quit buying stockings.

My roommate, Lucile Hutton, pointed out that she regarded me as something of a simple sucker for investing in hosiery when I could just as well beg castoffs from my friends. Whenever she got a run in one of a good pair, she presented me with the odd stocking. She very kindly spread the word around the dormitory and before long there were so many contributions, I never purchased any stockings myself. I doubt if I have bought more than half a dozen pairs of hose since. I am quite definitely spoiled. When emergencies have forced me to support my leg in the manner to which it has become accustomed, I have greatly resented the expenditure. During the war when even rayons were hoarded like jewels, I resembled a Black Marketeer. From Pearl Harbor to V-J Day, my leg remained a prewar aristocrat. I wore nylons. Suddenly stocking-conscious, my friends from all over the country sent me their last odd, survviving sheer.

During college I also learned that it was sharp to send my boy friends off to the dances with other women - even when they perjured themselves by swearing their eternal faithfulness to me. Prom night in a girls' dormitory can be a bit grim for a handicapped person. I used to flutter about hooking slinky dresses, powdering bare backs, and pinning on corsages and acting just horribly ecstatic about everyone dashing off without me, for a large evening. Along with a smattering of unlovelies, I was dependably free on the evenings of dances and so I usually operated the dormitory switchboard and let all the late home-comers in the front door. This was a neat device for checking up on what hour my own beau deposited his partner.

My insistence that my current follower date some-one else on these evenings did not surge from a noble nature. I didn't subscribe to the theory that virtue is its own reward and that I could have myself a high old time making others happy. It was sound technique. I could dance a little on one crutch, but only a partner who had practiced with me in private could make any real showing in public. At a dance I was a misfit and I knew it, but I never allowed anyone to get the idea that he was saddled with a burden who limited his pleasures. Often overly zealous devotion prompted some unsuspecting young man to make the supreme gesture. When my insistence finally convinced him he should go with someone else, he would ask me for a suggestion as to whom he should date.

Then I exercised my greatest generosity. I always carefully selected someone who might possibly have been a pretty baby, who was known to be good to her mother, and who would make someone, who had sense enough to recognize sterling virtues, a splendid little helpmate. Who could complain about that? There is often more to an ugly mug than meets the eye, I always say, and what's a lumpy figure anyway if it harbors a heart of gold?


I WENT TO COLLEGE during that dangerous period in the late twenties when easy money, Prohibition, and a hideous collegiate philosophy were madly dancing around, hand in hand. "It's not the grades you make but the college life and the contacts that are important." That little ditty, I am sure, made many a natural A student shift into C out of sheer apology, and it abetted me in my already deplorable habit of running for office.

Our college town was fresh out of fleshpots, how-ever. It reeked of wholesomeness. Besides, I didn't have enough money to be artistically madcap. My family has always cleverly managed to be respectably poor, even in times of great national prosperity. The only relative we ever had who accumulated an impressive pile of cash was an industrious great-uncle. He was lavishly rewarded with riches for being a vestryman on Sundays, and weekdays paying starvation wages to his employees and working them ten hours, in a cozy place said to resemble the Black Hole of Calcutta. He became something of a baron.

However, he got nervous about his hope for Heaven or else so annoyed with his kin, who looked lustfully eager every time he sneezed, that when finally he died, at the tantalizing age of ninety-two, he left his ill-gotten gains to the church. With proper sentiment, he did preserve for his posterity the family Bible, some bad paintings of grim ancestors, and a silver tea service. I got the tea service, which I must admit was preferable to the ancestors, but even it turned out to be quadruple plate, not sterling. So - I was pretty well imbued with the knowledge that life was real, life was earnest and knew that the minute I graduated from college, I'd have to stand on my own two crutches and dig into my own pocket for small change.

Although I was occasionally lured onto some rather distracting bypaths during my college years, I was fairly well oriented to the straight road to occupational preparation. I am grateful that no one with ideas about "suitable jobs" for the handicapped ever hedged me in with prejudices. I was fortunate that I was never tantalized with warnings that there were vocational fields in which my handicap made me ineligible. Nobody has to point out to a crippled person the things he can and can't do. I certainly didn't aspire for a spot in a dancing chorus, but I never felt any restrictions about choice of vocation either. I was allowed to follow my own bents.

Although some handicapped people must inevitably compromise with their ambitions, I firmly believe that, in general, they can at least approximate their objectives in the field of their natural choice. It may, of course, involve a shift in emphasis, and they should be prepared for occasional rebuffs. Although I suffered few of these, I was unprepared for them.

An acquaintance of mine, a girl victimized by polio in her teens, has been committed to a wheel chair for life. When she began protesting the completely unproductive existence she was forced to endure, her family humored her in great style. They allowed her to become the unhappy pawn of a spinster cousin of her mother's who fancied herself an able amateur occupational therapist. This well-meaning relative kept the poor girl bored but busy making pot holders, stringing beads into hideous novelties; and weaving baskets. Only when my friend finally revolted against her helpful advisors did she achieve the independence she craved.

"I simply wasn't meant to be a bead stringer," she told me. She loved books and had planned, before tragedy touched her, to major in library science at Simmons College. With the assistance of a very small loan for working capital, she started a lending library in her own home. In addition, on her own initiative, she learned shorthand and typing. She ran a successful dual business - the library, and a public-stenography and notary-public service. It was not precisely the culmination of her original plans, but it was a close enough substitute to give her personal satisfaction, as well as economic independence.

I was unhindered by planted misgivings. With complete freedom of choice, I surveyed occupations for women - or rather, careers for women. (For what girl ever expects anything less than a career, com-plete with a fresh gardenia daily on a superbly tailored suit, and a big blond Philippine mahogany desk in which to keep her lipstick?)

I made my first trifling but unhesitating step into economic independence while I was still in college. For the munificent salary of thirty cents an hour, I did a few small chores around the campus. In addition to operating the dormitory switchboard and doing a little life-guarding of the girls' swimming pool, I also could be had as a baby sitter. Summers I guided the young, as a counselor in a girls' camp. For, absolutely free and with unrestrained rapture, I also worked every day on the college newspaper. I didn't actually contribute very heavily to my own support; I merely earned the money for a few frills.

But this brief prologue to economic realism jolted me into recognition of the elementary fact that a pay envelope was a nifty proposition, but getting it could be almighty dull. I decided to go into newspaper work which, I thought and still believe, wasn't the quick formula for riches but was certainly a fairly entertaining way to eke out an existence.

Those were the days when opportunity didn't knock, she walked right in and sat down cozylike in the kitchen and had a cup of coffee with you. All you had to do was tell her what you had in mind. But by 1930, when I actually had the sheepskin in my fist, Opportunity, the fickle wench, was off on a long vacation. When I finally went out to work my wiles on employers, the depression was on.