THE CURSE OF HAVING BECKY TISDALE/LOVE/WELDAY AS AN OLDER SISTER

Story 3 (I think)

 

In so many ways, I feel jealous of all the students and friends of Becky who shared so many loving stories of discussions, encouragement, debates.  I got encouragement a lot from her, don’t be mistaken.  I knew she was so very proud of me as a little brother and supported my art. In fact, she adored my art.  But we didn’t ever have deep discussions or debates about anything.  She saved that for others.  Our conversations mostly centered on family and what problems different ones were having.  She wanted to be the peacemaker and she did it well.  We didn’t share deep theological ideas.  We certainly didn’t talk politics although she and I were of a like mind there.  When we were kids and daddy was in politics, she loved to discuss with him different candidates and such.  They had long conversations about what each party stood for, what each candidate had to offer.

   I saw him differently.  I was the one he took politicking with him around the parish.  I was to be seen and not heard.  I had to wait quietly in the car while he “would just be a minute,” which turned into hours.  I had to take care of the Shetland pony and ride kids on our pony cart while he made his speeches. I had to listen to the snotty nose kids who were rude and said they would tell their parents to not vote for daddy, if I didn’t let them take the reins.  Daddy was too tired to discuss anything with me and I was too shy to bring anything up.

 I wish Becky and I had had those discussions.  I wish I could have known her better.  We really didn’t do much anything together, just the two of us.

But one thing that Becky and I really liked doing together was visit our grandparents in south Louisiana…well, after they got indoor plumbing.  The outhouse was not our favorite place to visit.  None of us liked going out there at all.  Of course, I would make noises and such when the girls were there.  And we were always afraid there might be a snake nearby.  The chamber pots at night were a blessing until the morning when I, the male, had to take them out.  My mother’s parents lived in the old dogtrot home that my grandfather grew up in.  We loved that house and the large rooms. 

            Our favorite place was a hallway between the bedroom and the huge dining room.   That hall was like magic.  Grandpa had made bookshelves lining all the walls from floor to ceiling.  It was filled with their entire collection of Reader’s Digest and National Geographic magazines, some dating back to the 1930’s (or beyond), and we tried to read all of them.  Becky being the bossy one ordered me to climb to the top shelf and choose a book or two for her since she was athletically challenged. Of course, I did.  To this day I’m not sure what information she had about me to threaten me so.

Once a digest was retrieved, we would curl up on one of the wrought iron beds or the cot on the screened front porch with one of the dogs and read to our hearts content. We did share what we read with each other.  So, maybe I did have those deep discussions with her after all.

            Those were magical days where the two of us enjoyed each other’s company.  At night we’d gather on the cot on the porch and listen to the night sounds of owls and sometimes a screech of some animal in the woods nearby.  We didn’t dare let on that we were scared but we did scoot closer to each other under the handmade quilt. Other times we would play games.  Our favorite was “Big Fat Woman in a Vinegar Jar,” something Grandma made up.  She would ask us a question and we would have to answer without laughing, ‘big fat woman in a vinegar jar.’ Grandma had the most outrageous questions that made us laugh before answering.  We would also gather around the radio and listen to Amos and Andy or The Shadow.

            Those were the days where we were closest.  We didn’t have friends or telephones, landline, of course, to call our friends on. We just had the company of each other. 

            Looking back on it, those were the days I treasure with my sister.  Oh, Becky, what fun we had and what arguments we had too.  Writing this I want to call you and tell you what I am doing and see if my memory is the same as yours.

            I want to remind you how we used to make you mad because we said that when you were born you were vaccinated with a phonograph needle. I want to laugh again how when you were talking and I had a severe speech impediment, you would say, “Hi, I’m Becky and this is my brother, Nippy.  He doesn’t talk much but he’s all right.  He doesn’t bite anymore.”  I want to laugh with you again how when you and mama went shopping together and I was six.  I turned around to daddy and said, “Hi.” Daddy was shocked and said, “Boy, I didn’t know you knew how to talk,” and my reply was, “Well, Becky never gave me a chance to say anything.”

            Your funeral was glorious. Since you couldn’t find the book where you wrote the directions, and Carl couldn’t either, we just had to get our heads together about what to do.  Phone calls and texts between Katy, Arkansas and Wales filled our time.  We also found pictures some of which you probably won’t approve of but tough.  You should have been better organized where you keep things. 

Your friends and former students said the most wonderful things about you.  I am so very proud you were my sister. I didn’t always see it, but you were a guiding light to me.  We did you proud.  I do hope you appear 5’9” but I’m sure you are still that almost five-foot dynamo taking care of the other angels. You might be so short they call you the littlest angel. Ha!  I know the Lord is glad you are with him, but please, don’t talk his ear off.   I love you dearly and will miss you, always.  Hug mama and daddy for me and especially Jane.   As daddy would say, “Sini die”. 

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