Word: hayden
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...house on Grindstone Hill, outside Weston, Conn., deep in suburbia, the phone rings. It could scarcely have chosen a less convenient moment. The call catches Charles Hayden in the tub, where he has just supplanted his wife; they are getting ready, on this late spring afternoon, for a drive to New York City. His wife, still not quite dry, hastily flinging a wrap around her, pads barefoot to the phone...
...Hello," says Phyllis McGinley Hayden. A pause. "Yes, this is she." Another pause. "Well, I just got out of the bathtub and I haven't any clothes on . . . Oh!" With this exclamation, in which delight and dismay mingle, she cups her hand over the speaker and shouts into the hall...
...like to live like this!" wails Phyllis McGinley Hayden. "I like to live quietly and peacefully...
...adolescence, which its author considers her best verse, Phyllis McGinley's daughter Julie was the model. The McGinley muse, albeit a distant traveler, alights most often on the ordinary landscapes of motherhood and domesticity-the only two professions that consistently outrank the poet. Since the 1930s, Housewife Hayden has been singing the substantial pleasures of the hearth, and contentedly reminding herself...
Until Phyllis McGinley, no poet had ever successfully domesticated the muse, or, for that matter, had even tried to. Her singular achievement is that she has brought off the match without undue strain on either partner. The Hayden household in Larchmont rang to the rhythms of recited poetry. "We used to sit around the fire while she read it to us," Daughter Julie recalls. "It was mostly ballads-and Yeats and Chesterton too. She chose dramatic stuff because she believes that poetry should appeal to the emotions. Mother and Patsy would always cry at the sad parts...