The Old Gray Mule Vegetable Stand

   A MEMORY

Wow, this sounds like a title to a great book.  Recently, I was in Alexandria for sister Becky’s funeral and drove out to my daddy’s farm where he raised Shetland ponies and sweet corn.  Yep, strange combination, isn’t it! 

            Daddy had bought this place years ago just outside of town near LSU-A.  We lived in town at that time.  In 1963, the year I went off to college, my parents moved to the farm.  I love to tell people that they moved when I left for college and didn’t tell me where.  It used to irritate my mama.

The house was located on highway 71S before they expanded the highway to accommodate the traffic to the college.   So, they moved into a house further back that they used to rent out. The garage stayed the same just off the new side feeder road and became a vegetable stand. 

            There was that beautiful old oak tree right next to it.  Daddy sold vegetables at that stand for a while.  There was always a gallon jar sitting on a table filled with money.  A sign next to it said, “I’ll be back shortly.  Just take what you need and leave your money in the jar.”  A funny thing: Daddy believed in the honesty system and that jar was never stolen and it always had money in it.

            In June and July, when the corn was in season that vegetable stand was an extremely busy place. Daddy would sit back in an old cowhide rocking chair in his overalls smoking a cigar or chewing tobacco and enjoying seeing and talking…well mostly telling tall tales…and sell his corn.  If people stopped by that didn’t know him, he’d let them think he was the hired hand which was seldom.  Everybody stopped by to see senator Cecil Blair whether it was to talk politics or just to sit back have a drink and chew the fat.  Hired workers brought the corn up front and the fresh corn would be piled into his fishing boat sitting under that beautiful oak tree.

 

         Dr. Glynn Bryant                         one of the parties                               food galore

            At the end of the corn season, we always had a party to celebrate the last harvest. Well, daddy had the party, mama would go nuts because he never took care of details.  She would be running around, fussing, and fuming because paper plates, plastic cups, paper towels had to be purchased. What side dishes should she serve always drove her up the wall.  Thankfully ladies stepped in and called friends to bring side dishes and we would provide the brisket and of course the corn.  Lights would be strung from the shed to the tree and wherever.  The day of no matter how many seasons we had the harvest meal party, always brought mama into a tizzy.

            Hay bales would be brought from the barn and spread all around the place for seating.  A borrowed table or two would be ready for the side dishes.  Daddy would hold court while boiling the corn, a huge pot would hold the melted butter while a friend or two would take care of the brisket.  Huge washtubs and coolers held the drinks.

                  

Me and Marty                         The Trinity: Dr. Larry Taylor, Bishop Greco, Rabbi Hinchin

            Mama was always cool as a cucumber once people began to arrive.  There was so much laughter, a lot of hustling and bustling about.  Rabbis, preachers, priests (Bishop Greco), politicians, mayors, sometimes a governor, professors, would drop by, including the plain folks.  And always, one of the clergy would be asked to say the blessing.  And, as always one of them would become the butt of a joke where daddy would pile all the corn cobs from others on a plate in front of them for a picture.

We’d all be sitting on the hay bales eating to our hearts content the last of the sweet corn.  The food never seemed to run out.  Children would be running around looking at the animals in the lot next to the shed that had geese, deer, mules, ducks, llamas, pigs, peacocks.  Some would be brave and climb on the hay bales in the barn.

The party would go on into the night.  This is a favorite memory.  I’m so glad that we stopped by the shed which was still there and used by the current owner as a crawfish shack.  It brought back a flood of memories of those carefree days. 

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

8/19/2022

Dear Becky,

            Today is a gloomy day.  We have had rain.  Lots of it…more than we’ve had all summer.  Thunderclaps so loud last night you’d think it hit the house directly.  Today rain and more rain. It will be the same for days they say.  Poor Gumbo has been so nervous and is clinging very close to us.  Her actions reminded me of our commiserating with each other about our dogs and their fears.

            I have not shed a tear, not had a knee-bending, breath-taking cry since the day before your funeral. Not even a quiet eye-watering, tear slowly running down my cheek sniffle.  Oh, I cried for Lynea on Friday the twelfth (so thankful it wasn’t Friday the thirteenth) and that night I went to the ground when my knees buckled wondering how I was going to be able to make it through another funeral the next day.

            I didn’t cry Saturday at Emmanuel. I laughed with others at stories about you. I told stories to others.  I even laughed when someone told me on the phone that she taught with you for several years.  She said, in one of those deep southern accents, “Nippy, I didn’t love your sister, but I did like her an awful lot.”

            There were so many people sending messages, I had to silence my phone.  So many people giving hugs and praising you for your excellent teaching skills.  It was a joyous day celebrating the “you” of you. I didn’t cry when others did…when their voices broke remembering how you made a difference to them.

            Saturday morning, I’m not sure if anyone noticed, but I picked up your box of ashes before people arrived and held you next to my heart…almost laughing that maybe I was stirring the ashes as I moved them, stirring my troubles away.  I wanted to open the box and set you free, but I didn’t. Instead, I placed the box, carefully, on the table in the middle of all your pictures and lingered my hand on the top, quietly petting it and talked quietly to you.  It was a moment between just me and you as brother and sister.  I told you how unfair I felt about the way you had to leave us.  How unfair it was that I was the only sibling left…even though I knew that Bobby was still here.  I won’t go into the details why we left him out, but I know you understood.  There were so many “what-ifs” that day.  I didn’t cry then.  I just smiled and enjoyed the moment with all our friends.

            When we got home, I took one of your pictures and placed it on the table next to my computer.  I have looked at it daily and not shed a tear, just smiled my biggest smile right back at’cha. 

            Last night I listened for a late text in the middle of the night so I could say, “OH, Becky!  Do you know what time it is?  I’m trying to sleep, for goodness sake.”  I didn’t cry then. 

But today!  Maybe it’s because of the gloom of the day or my taking Frances to a doctor appointment with her walker and getting soaking wet even with Garry’s weathered yellow raincoat. I cried.  So many memories have surfaced that I want to pick up the phone and share them with you.  Yesterday was our forty-ninth anniversary and I didn’t get a call from you or a silly cartoon that you sent. It hit me hard today that I had not heard from you.

I know we didn’t communicate every day, not even every week, but we knew each was there and could parlay whenever we desired. 

My tears are not helping me type and I have had to stop and blow my nose or wipe a tear away.  The trash can is filling up with tissues.  I love you dear sister.  We’ll be fine down here. I’ve been through this before with Jane and mama and daddy.  Heather made it safely home.  LOVE, Nippy

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

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”. 

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

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

Story 2

 My sister Becky was always destined to be a schoolteacher.  When we lived in the Paradise community, we had a wide set of stairs to the second floor.  I was four when we moved there and eight when we moved to Jackson St. Ext. outside of Alexandria.  

   Becky and I often played school on those stairs.  She was always the teacher.  I never got a chance to even attempt to be one because, well, have I told you before that I thought she was domineering and bossy?  That’s what first children do, though, isn’t it?

 

  The schoolhouse was the stairs, and each step was a grade to attempt.  Becky held a nickel in one of her fists behind her back and I was to guess which fist had the nickel.  If I got it correct, I had to answer a question of her choosing correctly.  If I missed the question, she made me write the question on paper at least ten times.  Then she would tell me the answer so I could remember in case she asked it again.  I’m afraid I did not progress too well in her school, never got past third. If she asked me the same question again if I chose the correct hand, and I failed again then I had to move one stair down. 

I was always envious of her great retention of stories, poems, authors.  I still struggle with this.  Even then she was my hero although I had no idea.  She was trying to improve my memory.

When we visited our grandparents on holidays we always played on the stairs to their attic.  Guess who was the teacher?  Yep.  It was Becky.  Now when cousins were also with us, we still played school, but Merry and Becky switched turns being the teacher.  But this time there were no questions, so I was able to advance through the twelfth grade.  

Older sisters can be so infuriating growing up, but they also make great friends as adults.  Oh, I’d get aggravated when she’d correct me or acted like a cloned Susie Blair, our mother.

  I learned to turn off the volume on my phone when I’d get a text at two or three in the morning, and sometimes not reply, but it didn’t matter. She did it anyway.  That’s one of the things I miss most right now is not receiving a text from my schoolteacher sister or seeing that she “liked” every comment I made to anyone and make snide remarks that she was turning into Susie.

Just last night around eleven, I thought of something I read and said, "Becky would love this," and came close to texting you. I halfway expect to get a text every night.

  Your funeral will be how you want it to be, we hope.  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, I guess that is the Blair in you because we are all like that.  I love you dearly and will miss you.

I adored you and you adored me.  Rest in peace dear Becky.  You will always be a part of my heart.   As daddy would say, “Sini die”. 

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

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

Story 1

When I was seven years old my sister and my cousin Merry decided that they were going to play with make-up and that I was going to be the client.  I, of course, was not too happy about this and tried to escape but was tackled and forced into a chair. 

First, they cleaned my face with cold cream, and put a scarf across my brow to keep my hair from getting in the way.  “Shut your eyes and hold still,” said Becky.  I squirmed. Merry held me tight against the chair while Becky put make-up on my face, darkened my eyebrows, put some blush on my cheeks, made up my eyes and added bright red lipstick. 

She handed me a mirror and I threw it across the room after seeing this monster.  That didn’t help.  The girls then put a headscarf on my head, and decided I looked a lot like Elizabeth Taylor. 

I had no escape.  I yelled and fought but was always overcome by the two older girls. No one came to my rescue.

They tried to get a dress on me, but I did manage to escape at that point. 

Where was mama when these tortures happened?  It seems she was always gone somewhere every time I was forced into being embarrassed by dear sister Becky. 

Thank goodness as adults we grew to become great friends.  Thanks Becky, for ruining my childhood.

By the way, they hid the make-up remover, and I had a Dickins of a time getting it off. Maybe she was preparing me for the future when I was acting in plays and musicals and wearing make-up.  Perhaps that is why I like coloring my beard different colors for occasions.  Older sisters have a way of shaping personalities of their younger siblings. Thank goodness I survived.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.

   IN MEMORY OF MY SISTER, BECKY.  

 My sister, Becky, loved her Petticoats.

      Boys who are sneaky always get caught in the end.

 

       
It was the beginning of school in the 1950’s and my sister and I were going to be together at Bolton High School.  Well, together doesn’t really apply here.  We would be attending the same school would be more accurate.  I was new to high school and had very few friends from Junior high because my hair was different. It was peroxided.  You see, the summer just before I went to Junior high, sister wanted the two of us to peroxide our hair.  She said it was the popular thing to do. “Let’s do yours first,” she said, “then I’ll do mine.”  That was a huge mistake because she did mine and then decided she didn’t want to do hers. I got to the eighth grade at the new Junior high and no one else had peroxided hair.  My junior high year was miserable.  There was a lot of hatred toward my big sis those years.   

So here I was beginning high school with few friends, and she had tons.  She was totally immersed in running with the popular crowd and didn’t want to be saddled with a little brother spying on her.  I was too shy at that time anyway to be social. I know that you find this impossible to believe that moi could be shy, but I was.  It wasn’t until later that I discovered it wasn’t necessarily a shyness.  I was just introverted.  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.  

Becky was a lot like daddy.  She loved having people around all the time.  She was very social. She belonged to clubs and hung out with the cool crowd at lunch.  I loved to have a lot of alone time. 

      

 In the 1950’s petticoats and saddle oxfords were the thing to wear.  The more layers the better on the petticoats.  I believe she probably had five or six layers, which was probably the norm, but I didn’t make it a habit to find out how many layers the other girls wore.  So, a five-yard skirt needed five net petticoats to achieve the Victorian volume, I’m told.  Of course, they had to be starched to achieve the look they so desired.  So, five petticoats made of 100 yards of netting was uncommon but not unheard of.  My sister’s skirts stood out like the Egyptian pyramids.  To watch the girls sit in those layers of clothing was a wonder to behold. One could never attempt to sit if their hands were holding books or something because it required both hands to press down on the skirt as they rear ended the desk.  If they didn’t their entire body would disappear behind a mountain of tulle.  I believe those school desks with that little shelf for us to write on was solely there to hold those layers of tulle in check.  Some of those girls would pop out of those desks like a jack-in-the-box.  They looked like a spring had become uncoiled.  Poof and all that fluff expanded as they stood.  I often wondered why the girls wore their petticoats one day and a straight skirt the next.  I later heard it was because the starched petticoats scratched their legs.

            These petticoats took up a lot of space at home.  Becky did have a lot of closet space, but I don’t think they ever saw the inside of her closet, especially during the school week.  Those petticoats just stood at attention around her room like sentinels on duty.  My brother tried to use them as temporary cages for pets he always brought home.

            Thankfully, these undergarments didn’t need to be washed on a regular basis but when they did, then Saturdays were the day.  We shared a bathroom, and she had a standing reservation for her washing days.  My brother and I were out of luck for using that bathroom those days.  Thankfully, we were boys living in the country and knew how to take care of business outdoors, you know what I mean?

            The room looked like a rainbow of clothes piled on the floor. Tulle everywhere in several shades of color.  Becky hand washed each one of these in the bathtub and then ironed and starched them.  She used Sta Flo extra strength.  The industrial kind…undiluted.  They were as stiff as some of those women I knew at church. After starching them they needed to be dried.

 

  These were the years daddy loved camellias. 

We had around seventy bushes planted around the yard and around our patio.  Becky reserved the six ones closest to our house as her drying rack.  These were placed on top of the camellia bushes so they could keep their shape.  She dared us to get near them as they dried in the hot sun. 

We had so many bushes that once she invited her whole gaggle of friends to a petticoat drying party.  They enjoyed washing and drying and starching and talking about boys and all the other girl stuff they talk about while they rolled their hair with those brush rollers or juice cans secured with bobby pins. I laughed watching them sitting around the patio wearing straight skirts in their curlers with scarves to keep them from sticking their heads, sipping lemonade while they waited for their petticoats to dry. My brother and I would sometimes climb a tree and throw things at them, but they were so full of themselves they never noticed. 

These camellia bushes are the same ones I was put in charge of watering on Saturdays.  On days when her friends weren’t there, I spent my weekend with a hose and a timer, per orders from the Senator, watering each one five minutes each at the base of each plant.  So, on petticoat days I made sure I watered those petticoat bushes, as soon as Becky left with her friends or had her nose in a book, not from the base but by spraying them all over.  My sister once asked mama for more starch because for some reason her petticoats were not as stiff as she intended.    Thankfully all that starch didn’t affect daddy’s beautiful camellias. 

Sweet revenge from a sneaky brother who was embarrassed in junior high because his sister used him as a Guinea pig by peroxiding his hair.

© Nippy Blair 2015. Posts and pictures on this blog cannot be copied, downloaded, printed, or used without the permission of the blog owner, Nippy Blair.