The United Nations General Assembly declares China an aggressor in the Korean War.
Ethel and Julius Rosenberg are put on trial for treason.
The 22nd Amendment to The Constitution, limiting Presidential terms, is passed.
Direct dial coast-to-coast telephone service in the U.S. is introduced.
See It Now with Edward. R. Murrow debuts on TV.
Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger is published.
Walt Disney’s Alice in Wonderland premieres.
“How High The Moon” by Les Paul and Mary Ford is the #1 Billboard song in June.
A first-class stamp costs 3 cents.
This morning I counted twenty-two rosebuds starting to open on the side of the house.
At school today they sang the birthday song to me. After that we had cupcakes with pink frosting. I’m not crazy about pink, but it’s okay for frosting. Bobby Baker was standing next to me when I blew out the little candle on my cupcake and he tried to kiss me. I didn’t mean to push him away hard and make him so mad he squashed a cupcake with his shoe.
I am seven years old today. I was born five days before DDay, which my dad says was the day troops landed on a beach in a place called Normandy. My dad wasn’t with them, which is how come he was at the hospital with Mom and me. When Dad tried to join the army in 1941, Grandpa Harper took him out of the line and “talked some sense into him.” At first Uncle Sam didn’t take men who were married and after that Dad didn’t have to go because his company made parts for tanks.
At school I am learning to write the alphabet in cursive and when my brother Ted won’t let me play with his Tinker Toys and Lincoln Logs, I practice writing Abigail Ann Harper. Ted is a year younger than me, but he thinks he can boss me because he is a boy.
If I do just the capital letters of my name, they spell “AAH,” which is the sound you make when you show the doctor your tongue or see baby chicks for the first time. The other way to write my letters is “AHA” which is on a silver necklace Grandma Harper gave me last Christmas. ”AHA” is the sound you make when you catch on to something that is important, like subtraction. Either way, I think it is a good sign to have these letters in my name.
Every year on my birthday, Mom tells me that when she left the house to go to the hospital to have me, the climbing roses on the side of the house were just buds, and by the time she came home with me, the entire side of the house was red. Then she tells me what a good baby I was because I never cried when she put me down for a nap. That was important because she had to watch Kate, who was just two years older than me and was fussy, and it wouldn’t be long before Mom would have to also watch Ted, who was born just 18 months after me and would climb out of his crib if Mom didn’t tie one of his legs to it with a torn piece of bed sheet. I was so good at taking care of myself that once Mom left me at home by accident and was sitting in the doctor’s office with my sister and brother before she figured out I was missing. At this point in the story Mom laughs and says that when she got home that day, I was sitting up in the playpen smiling and babbling like I was talking to someone.