Kickball

After Hide-And-Seek, kickball became my favorite game to play.

We didn't have enough people to make two teams, but who cares about that? Kirk and Scotty would play regardless. Maria would only play when it wasn't hot.

UGH!!! So frustrating....

However, it forced me to find my favorite time of day....

Texas burns hot. It can singe your flesh and make you sweat in seconds. I didn't mind it. Maria did.

She frequently told me, "I don't sweat, I glisten."

I hated that statement. Abhorred it like any normal person abhors cooked spinach. (Maria also liked spinach.)

Thankfully, when the sun disappeared behind the pine trees the air grew cooler, the light was enough, and the lightning bugs didn't bite. This time of day was acceptable for kickball and passed Maria's test. Scotty and Kirk were always ready to play, so after supper we'd meet in my front yard.

We used the area in front of my parents' bedroom window as home, the spot where the corner of our sidewalk met the yard as first, the edge of our yard as second, and a newly planted Sweetgum tree as third. There were no outs (not yet), no winners, no losers. Just kickball.

I loved it.

My Bo Duke

I have returned from the Armpit, well-read, well-fed, and appropriately attired. I am also assured that should I fall into the lake, I will not drown for Mrs. Rife's swimming lessons were superb.

I spend the rest of my summer at Roxi's house or Alex's house. We sing, we dance, we fight. We talk, and talk, and talk. Those are good days.

Another family comes into the mix. I'm pretty sure they were already there, but this is my first memory of them.

We are sitting on a shag-carpeted floor, playing Monoply. The boy to my left is younger than me, and he is a lot of fun. The boy to my right is one year older, but we're in the same grade. He's blonde-headed and blue-eyed.

He is very cute. And reminds me of Bo Duke.

This should give you an indication of just how cute he is. Because, really....Bo Duke? He was a dream!

My heart is now engaged. Even more so when it becomes clear that he doesn't mind when I try to play dodgeball with him.

He's pretty much perfect.

So, he will be Bo. Simply because he is worthy of the comparison.

An Answered Prayer Of An Almost Third Grader

My mom arrived in the Armpit after we'd been there one week. Which meant I didn't get out of taking naps anymore.

It also meant I had to eat spinach whenever my grandmother chose to cook it.

And shopping. We went shopping at Valley View Mall. Clothes shopping.

This was fun for Grandmother and Mom. They chatted, they got drinks, they pulled ridiculous looking cloths off racks and held them up to my chest. They chatted, they got drinks, they pulled hideous pink monstrosities off racks and bought them.

"Mom!" I cry. "Jeans and t-shirts. Jeans and t-shirts. Please....jeans and t-shirts!"

She shakes her head. "You will dress nicely, Kara Denise. Jeans and t-shirts are not appropriate school attire."

I groan. I moan. I beg and plead. It does no good.

So, here I am....in the Armpit, taking naps, eating spinach, and wearing pink slacks. I pray for a respite. I beg the Lord for a bright, shining moment where something will go my way.

After church, we head over to my great-grandmother's. She has a table set with various types of toasted bread. We run in and hug her. Before I tell you what she says to us, I simply must tell you that it is 9:30 a.m.

Great-grandmother, my namesake, says, "Did you have your ice cream?"

I smile. "Not yet, G.G."

"Go get your ice cream."

I dash off for the drug store, not worried at all that my mother will call me back and dispute G.G.

I laugh in glee and wicked excitement. God has helped me thwart my mother. Oh, happy day! Praying really does work!

Moors y Cristianos

She was born in 1892 in a valley in Spain. Her mother died when she was six. She left Spain when she was in her twenties and lived in Argentina and Cuba. She married her childhood sweetheart in 1919. She lived the remainder of her days in the Armpit. Which was a long time. She was 101 when she died -- May 24th -- three days before I graduated from high school.

Dionisia. My great-grandmother.

I am named after her -- Kara Denise.

She was a plump woman with a ready laugh, a shy quiet nature, and an overwhelming need to feed you. Her constant question, "Are you hungry?" was the first thing out of her mouth when she saw you.

Which worked out great for me because I was ALWAYS hungry.

One of my favorite stories about her centers around food. Beans and rice to be specific.

Beans and rice is a staple of the Catholic family during Lent. We don't eat meat on Fridays, so beans is our substitute. My great-grandmother made fantastic beans and rice, or "Moors y Cristianos" as she called it.

Into a bowl would go the rice -- or Cristianos. Then the beans -- or Moors. Separate cultures, a defined people -- which isn't what God intended -- who fought each other relentlessly.

Then she'd mix the beans into the rice -- just like the Moors mixed with the Cristianos. She would hand you the bowl and say, "See? Now you 'no can tell the deeference."

I loved her. Though she came to America and probably missed her home, never once did she expect you to embrace her culture in order for her to feel like she could practice it. She didn't scream her identity or force you to acknowledge the world she loved. She just was. She was an immigrant who had a great deal of respect for structure and opportunity in America. She became American. And loved her country. But...she was Spanish. And respected the people who came before her.

I was astounded by her. Truly impressed with how she risked changing her whole world for future happiness. She lived independently in Argentina, working and going to the opera, waiting for my great-grandfather to establish his business. Her strength humbled and inspired me. Her wisdom was unparalleled.

And there was one more reason to adore her --

My mother couldn't argue with her....

The Sights of the Armpit

Be sure to hold back your ooohs and ahhhs....

Let's take a tour around town.

As you come upon this town that time forgot, a drawbridge looms before you. It is in working order and provides a crossing over the arroyo. The road made a high humming sound as you went over. This noise could be translated into English by Wendy. The bridge usually said, "We missed you, Wendy!"

Once you're on the other side, to your left is the car wash my uncle made his riches from. Also to your left, across from the car wash, is the public library. You should not be surprised when I tell you Grandmother created that library. And ran it.

Main Street takes you through town. There's no reason to stop because there's no traffic. You pass by the junior high and the high school -- built with bricks. You pass a church -- Baptist. You pass the grocery store -- family owned.

Then you pass my granddad's business. The drugstore.

After that is the post office, and then a BUNCH of cotton and grapefruit.

There was a Luby's. Wait, no. If you wanted to eat at a restaurant, you had to go to the big city. Which we did. On Thursdays. After choir practice at St. Helen's. (Grandmother also directed the choir.)

When we went to Luby's we always got a table in the back. We were assured the area because she always went early to save the seats.

And by she....I mean my namesake.

Tea Time!

It is 4:00 p.m. at my grandmother's house. Apparently, that means we need to have tea.

Maria and Wendy climb up in the cushioned kitchen seats. They cross their legs daintily and look eager to participate. Bill sits in his high chair, smiling at the world, and allowing the women around him to include him in their fun.

I sat dutifully but certainly not daintily.

Grandmother pours tea into very delicate china cups. We have sugar-free cookies and other finger foods.

Maria and Wendy sip very carefully. I slurp.

"Don't slurp, Kara," Grandmother admonishes me as she raises a cookie to her lips. Admiration fills me as I watch her stretch her mouth around that cookie, carefully not messing her lipstick. It was quite a feat. My sisters and brother liked to watch her eat, always waiting for the time when she would smudge her Instant Mocha shade.

Apparently it happened, for she always reapplied using this little mirror attached to the lipstick tube. I never saw her make-up out of place. Not once.

Grandmother seemed like perfection. Everything nice. Everything pleasant. Everything intelligent.

I thought it amazing, and I wondered if I would ever appear as put together.

If it meant no more kick ball games, well, it would probably never happen.

Grandmother's House

I am still eating Cheerio's every morning. Still taking swimming lessons, still conning my way out of naps, and the setting is still "the armpit".

As I've mentioned, my grandmother was a teacher. And an English teacher at that. So, her house was a little....particular.

Everything had a place, and everything was in its place. You NEVER ran out of red checking pencils, and she recycled all her old worksheets by allowing us to write on the back when we played newscaster, or God help me, school. (I was forced into playing it by Maria and Wendy because I couldn't go outside and play with any of the neighborhood kids. I didn't know them.)

Her kitchen was especially organized. Some of her practices I never quite understood. For instance, she put wax paper between her stacked pans. I am seven, and I promise you I'm thinking, "What the ????"

Most people had a tupperware cabinet that when opened, you experienced an avalanche. Not my grandmother. Oh, heck no. She had all tupperware pieces stacked inside cigar boxes. Those cigar boxes had the following labels written on the front: small lids, medium lids, large lids, small bowls, medium bowls, large bowls.....you get the idea.

God help you if you didn't put a lid in the right spot.

All cloth-like items or papers or....well, I never really understood which items deserved this treatment, but she wrapped just about everything in plastic bags and tied them with colored twistie ties.

She also paper-clipped everything. All the bills, letters, etc. she received for the week or month would be on the desk paper-clipped together.

Now let's travel to the living room, music room, and hallway. Her books were neatly displayed in these areas. None bore signs of wear and tear, though she read them. She didn't dare ruin her books by dogearing corners, or laying them spread eagle on the table. And whoa is you if she caught you doing that. Her books were her jewels. They were so precious that if you wanted to read one, you had to check it out.

You read that accurately. We checked out her books like they were from a library. She organized every title, knew precisely where each book was on each shelf, and kept a record of their use on index cards. Her very own card catalog system.

But even more particular than this is the drawer where she kept her playing cards. She had several decks of cards, all different colors. Some of these decks had labels. These labels bore hand written notes. These notes would read, "This deck is missing the 3 of clubs.", "This deck is missing the 10 of diamonds."

Even at the age of seven I thought, why doesn't she just throw the deck away?

I never asked her.


Of course, the scary thing is I am finding I can be just as particular as she was. As I write this, I am a few days away from turning 38, and I promise you, when you open my tupperware cabinet, you will NOT experience an avalanche.

However, I am not so persnickety as to keep AND label my unusable decks of cards.

But...there's still time.