Reply to "non baseball memories"

My father grew up almost as an only child in Beaumont, Texas. His brother was 12 years older, and he definitely was doted on as the baby of the family. My grandmother hired a large-framed, 6-foot-tall black woman named Bessie to help with housekeeping and cooking, and she just loved my dad. When my dad was 3 or 4 years old, he crawled up on the dining room table to get a piece of fruit and accidentally broke a new crystal bowl that my grandmother had just purchased. This was in the height of the Great Depression, when money was scarce, and my grandmother was livid that her precious bowl had been broken. She spanked my father and stormed out of the room. A few minutes later, she was still steaming, and she returned and spanked my dad some more. A few minutes later, she was getting ready to spank my dad a third time when Bessie intervened and pulled my dad up into her arms. With a loud and deep bellow, she cried out, “Don’t you whoop my baby no mo.” My grandmother angrily asked, “Whose baby??” Bessie retorted, “My baby!” With that, Bessie tore down the street with my dad and didn’t return until nightfall. Bessie was a beloved part of the family and my grandmother delighted in telling that story over and over again.

When I was about 15, my family was visiting New Orleans and my dad set out to visit Bessie, who had retired in the Crescent City. Bessie's brother informed him that she had died the previous week.

Just across the street from my father’s home in Beaumont were hundreds of acres of woods, and my dad and his buddies loved to go camping in those woods for days at a time. They started camping when they were 6 or 7 years old, and none of the parents ever worried about them. They definitely had a charmed childhood.

As an adult, my dad thoroughly enjoys hunting. Growing up, I was used to him being gone all the time at his lease; thus, I have no problem with the time away from home that my husband and son spend hunting. The recruiting coordinator of my son’s future college is also an avid hunter and says he looks forward to my son’s arrival at the school so he’ll have someone who speaks his “language.”

My mother grew up as part of the Maverick family in Texas. The patriarch at that time was her great-grandfather, Albert Maverick, son of Samuel Augustus Maverick, who was a signer of the Texas Declaration of Independence. (Supposedly, Samuel Maverick was at one time the largest landowner west of the Mississippi. I'd like to know where all the land and money went! ) Albert and his wife Jane had about a dozen children and my mother was a part of the enormous fourth generation, with dozens and dozens of cousins. There was almost no need for friends, as the cousins got together regularly to play and visit. Jane occasionally got tired of all the company and when she was ready for people to leave, she would graciously offer to show them some of her etchings. That usually did the trick.

My mother was – and remains to this day – a “maverick.” She is 76 and has played bass fiddle in the Corpus Christi Symphony since age 14. That’s 62 years! She loves to tell dirty jokes and regularly rolls down the window of her car to ask policemen if they’ve caught anyone that day. I remember her doing this when I was a child and I was absolutely mortified! When my sister and I were growing up, she would regularly take us to the Port of Corpus Christi and ask sailors from foreign countries if we could come aboard their ships. Without fail, they would give us tours, offer us candy or treats from their country, and try to teach us some words from their language. I credit my mother for my love of learning, curiosity, and sense of adventure.