National Affairs: How Are You, Mamma?

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The President had been worried about his mother, 94-year-old Mrs. Martha Ellen Truman, ever since she had fallen and broken her hip three weeks ago (TIME, Feb. 24). He had hurried to her bungalow in Grandview, Mo. immediately after the accident, had telephoned every day after he got back to Washington. Last week, flying west in the Sacred Cow on the first lap of his trip to Mexico City (see above'), he was about to see her again, but he still seemed vaguely restless. As the morning wore on he picked up the radio telephone in the plane, called her house, talked over the drone of engines to his sister, Mary Jane. He said: "Tell her I'm about a mile and a half from St. Louis—straight up."

When the Sacred Cow landed at Kansas City he rode off to the Muehlebach Hotel, went to a suite for lunch. One hour and 30 minutes later he got back into a black Lincoln limousine with his physician, strapping Brigadier General Wallace Graham, and drove the 20 slushy miles to Mrs. Truman's neat, cream-colored bungalow.

Both the President and his mother brightened as he tramped into her front bedroom. She was sitting up in bed. He beamed, kissed her heartily, said, "How are you, mamma?" He gave her his presents—he had a box of flowers under his arm, and two dozen red roses from Mexico's Ambassador Antonio Espinosa de los Monteros in his hand. Then he sat down in a chair to hear the news.

"Do Your Best." Part of it was good. Considering her age, the white-haired old lady had recovered amazingly well. She was enjoying the cold sunny weather and the shouts of bobsledders in the snowy street outside. She ate well, listened to the radio, had her daughter read her the Kansas City Star and the Congressional Record, as usual. Both her legs were in plaster casts, but she felt little pain, showed no signs of contracting pneumonia.

But none of this was assurance that she would walk again. She was getting every medical attention. In the weeks since her accident, General Graham had discussed her case with the Mayo Clinic and with more than a score of other physicians all over the U.S. As she chatted with the President, four Missouri physicians dropped in to discuss her progress. But it woul'd be six to eight weeks before anyone would know whether the fractured bone would knit.

She had insisted from the first on knowing everything about her chances, and as she listened she seemed completely undisturbed. In her long life, Martha Ellen Truman had learned to accept trouble. She could remember the guerrilla fighting which raged on the Kansas-Missouri border during the Civil War, and the day when Federal irregulars killed her family's stock and burned haystacks and barns. She had lived by the plain philosophy which she had passed on to her sons—do your best, be loyal to your friends, never forget your enemies. She saw no reason for "a lot of fuss & feathers" now.

"I'm Not Giggly." The President stayed for almost three hours. Despite his concern he enjoyed himself, was delighted as usual both with his mother's pride & pleasure and her occasional sharpness of tongue. She was waiting expectantly to hear his radio speech from Mexico—once she had confided: "I'm not a giggly woman, but I can't help smiling when people cheer at the mention of Harry's name."