We didn’t start the fire, and neither did she, but she certainly kept the flame burning bright…

My grandmother was born in Kansas, the baby of six children.  Her father died when she was 6, and she never knew her eldest sister because she died at the age of 2.

She was a farm girl, a valedictorian, a football queen, and a college graduate.

She taught English for 30 years, was Teacher of the Year, District, and Region and started the Public Library for that small town in South Texas that probably had the first drug store.

She had two children while she continued to work…

She was the original working mother.  

And one night I had the privilege of sleeping in the same room with her and she spoke about the beauty of the nominative participle…until 1 a.m.

There is much to say about her, but I think the poem I wrote in college says it best…

I remember how she used to touch her hair,
and how she labeled all her Tupperware.
I remember when she was Salutatorian at 13 and Valedictorian at 18.
I hope I learn to say “I” instead of “Me”,
and that a deck of cards was missing its 3.
I remember she ate poached eggs for breakfast, had tea at 4:00,
and her students were silent when they heard her steps upon the floor.
Teaching English was her calling, and rightly so, her first students were her dolls,
she taught people all they needed to know.
After praying before a meal, she would always get that look upon her face,
and we knew what she was about to say –
“Did we say grace?”
I remember 40 tubes, with mirrors attached, of Instant Mocha lipstick,
and designer hose bought from Neiman Marcus.
I remember that shade of taupe she always wore,
and how she fooled her husband and didn’t get
her wedding ring melted to the core.
I remember how she said, “Goodnight!”, when she was shocked,
and how her 1000 books were organized into a card catalog.
The library would not have been possible without her,
nor would my education for that matter.
I remember how she put wax paper between her pans,
and that her favorite song could be held in the palm of your hand.
She loved the Aggies, and was once a football queen.
She was always quite the lady it seemed.
Whenever I watch the Sound of Music, I think of her.
Whenever I read the Lockhorns, I think of her.

I will always be able to feel how much she loved her husband and family.
I will always be proud of how much she accomplished
and how much she loved to learn.
And I hope I will learn to be a lady like no other –
A lady like my grandmother.

The cement is white, making the blinding sun reflect right into your face and the sweat bead at your hairline.  Texas in the summer…

The parking lot is full of cars for this is the only grocery store around for five miles and he parked all the way in the back.

The handles of grocery bags are cutting into his fingers and he’s carrying three in each hand.  It was, of course, his idea to go to the store because he is going to make goulash.

He is breathing hard for he is in his seventies and his strength isn’t what it used to be.

My brother is with him and Bill is walking fast, trying to get to the car where there is air conditioning and a chance to get out of the blazing heat.

But, the older gentleman stops and tells Bill to wait.  





Bill turns around and to his surprise, he watches as a seventy-year-old, already well into retirement, with sweat sliding down the sides of his face, sets his heavy burden down to pick up a penny on the ground.  

He puts it in his coin holder, picks the bags back up, and says, “Okay.  I got it.”

He is my granddad.  A genius.  A hard worker.  Son to immigrants from Spain.  A survivor of the depression.  A college graduate in a time when college wasn’t important.  A pharmacist.  A husband.  A father.  A no-nonsense kind of guy who used the word “hooey” a lot.

For 50 years he served ice cream (Blue Bell only) and medicine to people in a pretty small town in South Texas.  His father started the store around 1919 and he kept it going with his brother.  It was Granddad’s idea to put the pharmacy in the ice cream parlor.  I sometimes wonder if he was the first person to think of it…

A drug store.

It had stools that swiveled.  I sat there and swiveled and swiveled and swiveled and ate vanilla ice cream.

Granddad was funny.  And he could do magic tricks.  And he would empty out the mustard and ketchup bottles, put string in them, and then hide behind the counters, preparing to jump out and “squirt” you.

He LOVED Wil E. Coyote.  We would watch those cartoons and half the time I would crack up just because he was laughing so hard.  I never really thought they were funny.  I don’t know why the coyote kept going after the road runner.

I am an adult now and I would have to say that I find them a lot funnier in my old age.  I wonder what that means…

Granddad devoted his life to his parents, his family, and his church.  

When we sat down to dinner, he would come around and kiss the top of our heads before we said grace.

And he always said, “Get what you want, but eat what you take.”

Which means -- never take on more than what you can handle.  But, if you take it on, then do it well.

God bless him…

Mashed potatoes.
Pot roast.
Gravy.
Bread.
Butter.
And jelly.

There was always jelly on her table.  There were always white mounds of creamy and buttery potatoes.  Her potatoes melted in your mouth like ice cream.  It was glorious…

She had figurines all over her house and sofa pillows with flowers on them.  She had two china cabinets filled with dishes and no dishwasher.

She played Scrabble and Skip-Bo and kept Blue Bell in the freezer.  (If you aren’t from Texas, Blue Bell is the best ice cream in the country.)




She is a third generation Texan, born to migrant workers, and picked cotton throughout her childhood.  She has no more than a third grade education, but has more wisdom than most PhDs.

She is my grandma.

She married Grandpa at 17 and had four children.  She lived her life to take care of her family and followed Grandpa’s orders without argument.

Some disapproved of her choice to play the role of servant.

But she was married for 54 years and her husband held her hand until the day he died.

We should all be so lucky…

I am stealing this title from my sister.  When she was in the second grade she wrote a story about our grandpa and called it “A Funny Fella”.  When he read it, it was the first time I’d ever seen him cry.  The second time came four days before he died.

He was the second oldest in a family of 13, however, he was still the S.I.C.  Or, in other words, the Sibling In Charge.

He did most of the cleaning, most of the care-taking, and earned most of the money for his family.  His parents were Jehovah’s Witnesses and, among other things, they didn’t believe in working for a living.

Grandpa resented religion.  

Not God…religion.

When he was 14, he went to work for a dairy farmer, milking all the cows and sent every penny he earned to his mother.  The farmer gave him food to eat and a place to sleep.

Despite having to carry his family of 13 children on his 14-year-old shoulders, he always treated his parents with respect.  

He married our grandma when he was 18 and went off to war when he was almost 19.  He was a Sergeant, stationed in Germany, and was the second company into Auschwitz when the war was over.

He worked for Amaco for the rest of his life, had four children, and managed to save his way into a pretty nice retirement.  He gave to the fire department, loved his grandchildren, and took very special care of his wife.

He didn’t respect anyone on welfare, wasn’t afraid to tell people exactly what he thought, had moments where he almost disowned members of his family, and he voted Democrat all of his life.

And…he lived on an acre and a half…and had Go-Carts.  And Doon Buggies.  And he loved Hank and Slim, could play the harmonica, and called me his “special girl”.  (On account of me being the only grandchild with red hair.)

Needless to say, I was pretty enamored of him.  Even though he had a German temper, which is MUCH scarier than an Irish one, he couldn’t scare me.  His bark was always worse than his bite!

And when I was about seven, he gave me the first piece of advice that I carried into adulthood…

“Kara, don’t you drink beer just to throw it all up the next mornin’.”

And, I haven’t.

You won’t believe it…

The confinement, the irrelevant activities, the asinine pay (Stickers? Really?), the mind-numbing speeches, and the out-and-out horror that was Kindergarten, couldn’t keep me from being…

PROMOTED!

Yes, me!  I am in FIRST grade now!  I am six!  Look out world, things are about to get exciting!

So, here I come, flitting into my new first grade class, with my new first grade teacher, in a brand-spankin’ new school, and guess what???

Being six, apparently, doesn’t mean that school is any better, or any different.  It was the same mind-numbing experience.

I was appalled!

I mean, I have a baby brother now.  I change his diapers.  I get him up in the morning.  I give him his bottle.  I am being a mom.

Obviously, I already know everything if I can take care of Bill!  Why couldn’t these teachers see that?

Why did I have to practice putting away my coat and my lunch box, when I knew how to diaper an infant without getting peed on?

I mean, come on!  Wake up and smell the coffee, lady!  I am not some idiot!  I already know how to do the hardest job on earth!

One hundred and seventy seven days…

God save me now…

How strange to have a boy in the house.  And, how exciting.

We all helped Mom.  He belonged to all of us.  And I am sure that confused him, but who wouldn’t want four ladies fawning all over you?

His rear was never wet, his room was never messy, his bottle was always full, and his every coo and babble caused an instantaneous reaction. The oohs and aahhs going on in our house would put any fireworks demonstration to shame.

Yes, we smothered him, but he didn’t seem to mind.  And, Bill being Bill, he understood at a very early age that we meant well.  Our protective moments, our constant assistance was never met by an angry cry.  He let us fuss over him with a sweet smile on his face.

(Of course, he might’ve been milking it.  He didn’t independently clean his room until he was in school.)

Bill was smart.  Ordered, steady, observant, and quiet.  He added calm to the chaos over our home.  And everything was better because of him.

And, while it would be challenging for him to grow up with four women surrounding him, his biggest test was coming…

Failure was not an option.

Mothers…

They always get to do what they want.  It’s maddening.  And they’re always telling you what to do and how to do it.

And if you have a good idea, they pretty much shoot it down because it might get something dirty.  Or get something broken.  Or make something smelly.

So, my suggestion of naming my new brother “Bill” was not going over well.  It was clear I wasn’t going to win.

I begged, I pleaded, I called him Bill just to get her warmed up to the idea and to see that, HECK YEAH, he was a Bill!

But it didn’t work and she did what she wanted to do and named him after my dad and a priest if you can believe it!

Well, guess what????

She ain’t writin’ this blog so now I get to win!

My brother will be Bill.  

Because he is amazing.   Because he is smart.  Because he is going to have to be tough with three older sisters around.  Because he is talented.  

And…because he is a survivor…just like another man I know…

My mom is huffing and puffing.

And as the labor and delivery nurses wheel her down the hall to the room where she is going to do some pushing, my dad is walking along side her.

“How about Kelly?” he says.

My mom huffs and puffs.

“How about Kristina?” he offers.

She is still puffing.

My dad thinks some more as the nurses wheel my mom into the delivery room.  The doctor is waiting and my dad says, “How about Katherine?”

My mother finally finds enough breath to say, “This…baby…is…a…boy!”

My dad, I’m sure, just rolls his eyes in response.

The pushing starts.

In my life, I know of two explanations for the mysteries of child birth.  One is from Carol Burnett and the other from the movie Look Who’s Talking.  

Carol Burnett describes child birth as taking your bottom lip and pulling it over your head.

Hmm…

Kirstie Alley says, “You try squeezing something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon and tell me how you feel about child birth.”

Double hmm…

So, my mom is going through the above and she pushes and she huffs and she puffs and the baby just isn’t coming.  Finally, she says, “What is going on?” and she sits up, preparing to get that baby out whether it wants to come or not.

The nurses try to make her lie down, but her doctor, God bless him, knows she’s had three other kids and she is just fine.  

My mom gives it one good push and out the baby comes.

“It’s a boy!” cries the doctor.

A very shocked father says, “You’re kidding.”

And, while he’s finally got someone who’ll see his side of things, he has had another example of the truth…

Girls are always right.

My mom is pregnant! 

And this time, I am older and I can remember what she looked like.  I can remember what it felt like to wait for the baby to arrive.  I can remember how it felt when the baby kicked her tummy.

It was exciting!  And me and my two sisters knew, with every ounce and fiber of our being, that it was a boy.

My dad did not share our conviction.  But, he wanted a boy.  Oh, yes, he really did want a boy.  

And we wanted a brother.  We had sisters, and they were great, but a brother would be even cooler!

And I already knew what his name would be…

Bill, of course! 

Learning how to spell “Bill” was the best thing I learned in Kindergarten.

So, I informed Mom that the baby would be a boy and his name would be Bill.

She did not agree with me.  About the name anyway.

But, I didn’t let that bother me.  In my mind, he was Bill and that was what he was going to be.  

During Art class, I took to making family portraits.  I drew every member of our family in order of birth and wrote their name over their head.  Dad was first, then Mom, then me, then Maria, then Wendy, then our dog, Misty, and last, Bill.  He wasn’t born yet, but he was a part of us already.

I proudly showed my drawings to my mother and father.  Mom said it was inaccurate because his name wasn’t going to be Bill.  Dad said it was inaccurate because the baby wasn’t a boy.

Well, we’ll see who wins this one…

There are barrettes and bows and ribbons and clips everywhere.  There are flowers on the bedspreads and pink paint on the walls.

There are sing-alongs and plays behind curtains made of beach towels or sheets.

There are high-heeled shoes on too small feet and long dresses on bodies not nearly developed enough to fill them out right.

“Dad, you’re stepping on my hem!” Wendy cries.

“Dad, are you gonna sit down and watch our play?” asks Maria.  “It’s Snow White!”

Drummond sighs inwardly and tries very hard not to roll his eyes.  He sits in the appropriate chair, hands Maria his ticket and waits for the play to unfold.

But, before it can start, Kara comes busting through the curtain, knocking it down and crying, “YEEHAW!”

“Kara!” Maria and Wendy shriek at the top of their lungs.  

“We’re having a play and you’re wrecking it!” Maria declares.

Kara only throws a laugh over her shoulder as she races for the back door and the neighbor boys who are waiting outside.

Drummond, remaining silent, waits patiently for Wendy and Maria to hang the curtain up and get situated.  It takes probably ten minutes because, of course, the curtain has to be just right.  No peeking, they tell him!

The play begins and he watches as Snow White meets the dwarfs (their dolls) and then the evil step-mother (a picture glued on a stick) gets the girl to eat a poisoned apple.  And, of course, there is much arguing because Wendy forgot to enter stage left when the dolls are racing to save Snow White.

And then the Prince (Wendy) kisses Snow White (Maria) awake and soon Drummond is clapping as the girls curtsy.

“Is that it?” Drummond asks.  “Y’all are done, right?”

“Here is your ticket to Cinderella!” Wendy announces.

Drummond takes it with a forced smile and rushes hastily into his bedroom.  He finds M’Lynn standing at their bathroom door, with a special glow in her cheeks.

“I’m pregnant!” she cries.  

(He did not pass out.  He just said with a smile, “That’s great.”  But I’m certain he was cussing a blue streak in his head.  Because, of course, it was going to be a girl.)