Mommy...dearest: Barbara's Early Memories

We think we recognize someone when she has come into our living room for so many years, but you guessed it....there's always more than meets the eye. To see Barbara Walters through a Thinkwriter's lens, start by perusing her earliest memories* and then select the worldview you think fits her best. Four possibilities are listed at the end of this post and a poll is in the right hand column. Please cast your vote and thank you for participating!

(#1) When I was in the hospital [age 7 or 8] recovering from the operation [appendectomy], which in those days kept you in the hospital for almost a week, my mother would take the streetcar back and forth from Brookline to Boston every day to see me. She had to then walk a good ten blocks to the hospital. One night I heard someone entering my room and, thinking it was the nurse, whom I didn’t want to see, I kept my eyes closed. When the person left the room, I finally opened my eyes and saw at the foot of my bed my favorite doll. My mother, worried that I would feel alone, had taken the streetcar at night to visit me one more time. The memory has stayed with me all these years. I can barely write about it even today. It makes me so sad for her.

(#2) One Christmas I remember saving money to buy my mother a cut-glass perfume bottle, which many women kept on their dressing tables. My mother had a considerable collection, and I was sure she would want to keep adding to it. I carefully chose what I thought was the perfect one, chiseled in the shape of a half-moon. I wanted my mother to love it and not want to return it, as she did so many of my father’s gifts. She returned his presents so often that he stopped buying anything for her. I have kept this lesson in mind all my life. No matter what anybody gives me as a gift, I say, “Terrific,” and wear it at least twice (before trying to return it).
The day before Christmas, unable to keep my secret totally to myself, I asked my mother if she would like another bottle for her collection. “Not really,” she said. “I have too many already.” I could barely keep back the tears, but it was too late. The next morning I gave her my shiny wrapped present. She opened it, took me in her arms, and exclaimed, “Of all my perfume bottles, this is the most beautiful. It makes all the others look dreadful. I am going to give them all away and only keep this one.” And she did.

(#3) When I was about seven years old, the school put on a little performance for adoring parents. It featured a robin red-breast as the lead and a chorus of little brown-costumed chippers. I was assigned the leading role of the robin. But here’s the thing: I didn’t want to be the star. I wanted to be in the chorus, to be like all the other kids. So to this day I recall going home and watching my mother, who sewed very well, cheerfully making my robin costume. I tried it on, with its big gorgeous red belly, spread my wings, and burst into tears. When I told my mother why, she came to school with me the next day and explained the situation to the bewildered teacher. My mother and I went home, tore up the costume, and I became a chipper in the chorus like everyone else.

Cast your vote for Barbara Walters’ worldview in the poll to the right. (Note: This poll is now closed; voters' selections are listed in percentages. The correct answer is #2.)
1. Mothers rule. (15%)
2. I work it. (61%)
3. I deserve presents. (0)
4. I get my way. (23%)

*All three memories are from Barbara Walters' memoir, entitled Audition (2008).