ramblings from an arkansas farm girl
Forty-nine years ago my life changed when the stork brought me a little sister. A best friend and constant companion. A playmate and co-conspirator. Even though I was two years, nine months and seven days older, Momma dressed us alike and many people came to believe we were twins.
Some still do.
I try to recall my first sister memory, but I can’t find it. My memories are all of us together.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Musical Pairing:
The Beatles, Birthday Song
Way before parents spent too much time trying to create magical memories for their children, my Momma (the BAT) made holidays special by just being herself and keeping life simple. Halloween involved homemade costumes, birthdays included handmade invitations, and 4th of July meant driving over the tracks to buy Roman candles we set off across the cotton field. Christmas was pure-dee-lightful from the moment the Sears Wish Book arrived in the mailbox to the dreaded morning we returned to school in January.
via morgueFile
And Easter? Easter was fun too. There was the all important Brinkley Chapel part with Brother Brown’s resurrection sermon, and although Daddy never once attended Easter service with us, he seemed to be in an okay mood (except the Easter Sunday our house was robbed but that’s a different story).
During the week leading up to Good Friday, our house smelled of Easter—white vinegar and PAAS dye. Easter egg dyeing was an important part of our tradition.
But my first spring semester in college, for whatever reason, I wasn’t planning to drive home to Arkansas for Easter break. Not enough time? I don’t recall. But I do remember thinking what about Easter eggs? We’d always dyed eggs together. Oh well, things were bound to change eventually…
Not really.
Momma and Aunt Lavern loaded up the Cadillac and brought Easter to Baylor University complete with THREE dozen hard-boiled eggs. My sister, cousin and I dyed those eggs while staying at the Best Western across from campus.
That, my friends, is the definition of a fun Momma.
And yes, I’m wearing a tube top.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Musical Pairing:
The Power of Love, Huey Lewis
Beyond the cotton field and over the steep ditch, we could see Aunt Rena’s store from my cousin Lesa’s front yard. On summer afternoons, we walked over for a visit. Aunt Lavern (Lesa’s momma) watched us from their carport to make sure we didn’t get run over on the highway by the big trucks hauling grain. We never did.
Even though Aunt Rena was always busy piddling around the store, she seemed happy to see us and greeted us with big hugs and glasses of sweet tea served in Mason jars. Since her store was dimly lit and crammed packed with stuff, it was our favorite place to play hide-and-go-seek. The creaky wooden floors and musty air that sometimes made us sneeze, added an extra challenge to our game.
I liked to hide behind the large cardboard boxes shoved underneath the dry good shelves.
One day I peeked inside and discovered the boxes were filled with scraps of fabric—different colors and patterns—all folded and stacked in little squares.
Six whole boxes!
“Aunt Rena, what are you planning to do with all this fabric?” I held up a stack of cotton pieces.
“I’m not sure yet,” she said.
I thought she might use the cloth for quilts and blankets. Or maybe she was just a collector of things that were too good to throw away. I never really knew for sure. I never saw any customers in the store either.
Grace Grits and Gardening
Aunt Rena and Aunt Virgie made this quilt for me as a wedding gift…
“Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.”
― Oscar Wilde
