My Own Two Feet (25 page)

After I had studied Mrs. Hamilton's suggestions, I saw that they actually involved very little work. They were easily made and sent off; a con
tract and check arrived, as well as a letter saying, “We all think this is going to be one of the exciting publications of the fall.” The book was now titled
Henry Huggins
. After all my years of ambition to write, of aiming both consciously and unconsciously toward writing, I had actually written. I was a real live author. I was most grateful to Elisabeth Hamilton for the first instruction in writing fiction I had ever received.

I telephoned the bookstore to tell Sara, who spread the news. Then I told other friends. Everyone was surprised and congratulated me with varying degrees of enthusiasm. One neighbor said, “I think it's just great that you sat quietly at home and cracked that New York crowd.
Now
you can be eccentric.” Harvey Fergusson said, “Why don't you quit fooling around with children's books and write for adults? I have a hunch you could write like Katherine Mansfield.” Hannah was pleased for me, but she was also indignant because I had not given my manuscript to the Morrow rep to submit for me. “Don't you want to be a feather in his cap?” she asked. No, I didn't want to be a feather in anyone's cap, especially the cap of a man who had so vigorously expressed a dislike for children's books. The rep, the next time he was in Berkeley, said, “Don't go out and buy a yacht, but this book will sell.” He
did very well by it, and so did Sather Gate because Quail offered it to every customer who came in. She sold five hundred copies during the Christmas rush of 1950. Mother wrote that Dad was proud of me and that she was telephoning everyone with the news. Clarence said he knew all along I could do it.

After keeping the advance royalty check for a few days to admire, I took it to the bank to deposit. As I walked down the winding road, the sky shone blue through the gray-green eucalyptus leaves, but because eucalyptus buds tend to roll underfoot, I watched my step. Half-hidden by a sickle-shaped leaf was a nickel. I picked it up and put it in my pocket, and as I walked, my fingers played with that worn nickel while my mental pump, having been primed by
Henry Huggins
, was at work on a story about a girl named Ellen Tebbits who had trouble hiding her woolen underwear at ballet class.

I was confident that a satisfying life of writing lay ahead, that ideas would continue to flow. As I walked, I thought about all the bits of knowledge about children, reading, and writing that had clung to me like burrs or dandelion fluff all through childhood, college, the Yakima children's room, and the bookstore. As I mulled over my past, I made two resolutions: I would ignore all
trends, and I would not let money influence any decisions I would make about my books.

I was so happy, the day was so bright and fragrant, that I did not bother to take the bus at the bottom of the hill but walked on down Euclid Avenue, across the campus, past buildings where I had attended classes, the building that brought painful memories of the English Comprehensive, the library where I had spent so many evenings with Clarence, the Sather Gate Book Shop, to the bank next door. There I deposited the check and one worn nickel for luck.

In my years of writing I have often thought of that nickel and now see it as a talisman of all the good fortune that has come to me: friends, readers, awards, travel, children of my own, financial security that has allowed me to return the generosity extended to me when times were hard for everyone. It was indeed a lucky nickel.