I am the youngest of three in my immediate family. My brother is four years larger and my sister, in the middle, is older by two and half years. Being the youngest and having both brother and sister was ideal for me. I could be a tomboy with my brother and do girly things with my sister like play with Barbies and paper dolls and dress up in our mother's old clothes and high-heel shoes.
Some of my fondest memories are of being a tomboy. My brother and I often took advantage of living out in the country in Spring, now a suburb of Houston. Back then it was twenty miles north of that sprawling metropolis. We moved in 1964 when I was nine and Daddy commuted back and forth to work in Houston. I believe he wanted to raise his family where it was safe and easier to keep track of us. There were only two other houses in the entire subdivision when we moved in. Our development was of the large lot variety where the minimum lot size was an acre. When my grandparents moved into the area we split the acre behind both of our houses allowing an acre and a half for each of us. My stay-at-home Momma planted a huge garden year round on that half acre. We had corn, bell peppers, watermelons, cantaloupe, green onions, sugar snap peas, ornamental peppers (those were hot and looked way too much like bright colored candy!), tomatoes, lettuce and even potatoes and radishes. We ate very well! She was a great cook and gardener, my Momma.
Our one-story red brick home was on Haydee, a dead end street. Nestled amongst tall lob lolly pine, sycamore, and live oak trees, it was perpetually in shadow. My favorite was the sweet gum with its stickery gumball fruit. In the summer, being the tree-climbing monkey that I was, you would often find me swaying in the small branches at its highest point. Probably hiding from my brother. I would torment and bug him endlessly until finally he would chase me up a tree, usually the sweet gum. Since I was a teeny little nine-year old girl and he was a strapping thirteen-year old boy he couldn't follow me to the highest small branches. From my perch, toes and legs firmly wrapped around the tree, I would throw gumball fruit and occasionally even spit on him. I know, I know, I was a brat.
I was an accomplished runner and could shimmy up that tree faster than you could say "I'm gunna getchoo fer that!" We'd be yelling and cursing each other the whole time. I learned some of my favorite words from him. I'm fluent in curse.
Some of my fondest memories are of being a tomboy. My brother and I often took advantage of living out in the country in Spring, now a suburb of Houston. Back then it was twenty miles north of that sprawling metropolis. We moved in 1964 when I was nine and Daddy commuted back and forth to work in Houston. I believe he wanted to raise his family where it was safe and easier to keep track of us. There were only two other houses in the entire subdivision when we moved in. Our development was of the large lot variety where the minimum lot size was an acre. When my grandparents moved into the area we split the acre behind both of our houses allowing an acre and a half for each of us. My stay-at-home Momma planted a huge garden year round on that half acre. We had corn, bell peppers, watermelons, cantaloupe, green onions, sugar snap peas, ornamental peppers (those were hot and looked way too much like bright colored candy!), tomatoes, lettuce and even potatoes and radishes. We ate very well! She was a great cook and gardener, my Momma.
Our one-story red brick home was on Haydee, a dead end street. Nestled amongst tall lob lolly pine, sycamore, and live oak trees, it was perpetually in shadow. My favorite was the sweet gum with its stickery gumball fruit. In the summer, being the tree-climbing monkey that I was, you would often find me swaying in the small branches at its highest point. Probably hiding from my brother. I would torment and bug him endlessly until finally he would chase me up a tree, usually the sweet gum. Since I was a teeny little nine-year old girl and he was a strapping thirteen-year old boy he couldn't follow me to the highest small branches. From my perch, toes and legs firmly wrapped around the tree, I would throw gumball fruit and occasionally even spit on him. I know, I know, I was a brat.
I was an accomplished runner and could shimmy up that tree faster than you could say "I'm gunna getchoo fer that!" We'd be yelling and cursing each other the whole time. I learned some of my favorite words from him. I'm fluent in curse.
“You little brat, can’t you just leave me alone.”
“Why? You’re not doin’ anythin’ anyways.”
“Yeah, but I want to do the nothin’ that I’m doin’ without you hangin’ aroun’. You can’t follow me ev’rywhere, you know.”
“Why not? Don’chu like me?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you’re just a big fat meanie then.”
“If you don’t go away I’m not goin’ to take you huntin’ tomorrow.”
“Yeah, you will. I’m yur good luck charm, you said so.”
“Right now you’re bein’ a lil’ bi—h!”
“Ah-um, I’m gunna tell Momma you said that.”
“Go ahead, my word against yours.”
“She’ll believe me, I’m not a liar like you.”
“Jus’ get the hell away from me.”
“Fine, I’m goin’ then, butt head.”
That’s when the chasing would begin and I could simply run faster than him. He hated that.
We would leave early on a summer morning, b-b gun in hand and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches stuck in pockets and not come home ‘til sunset. We'd pick blackberries that grew wild and swim in the man-made lake at the front of the subdivision. Tall reeds along the edges and a thin layer of algae on top, we'd plunge right in amongst the snakes, turtles, bass and who knows what else due to the murky water, I don't even want to know. Someone had made a raft so you could pole your way to the middle of the lake and dive to your heart's content. That's where my brother taught me to swim. By teaching me I mean one day when he was utterly tired of me hanging around his neck, the proverbial albatross, he picked me up under my arms, swung me around a couple of times to get momentum and threw me off that raft as far as he possibly could and said, "Now sink or swim." He had, of course, taught me what to do prior to that act of rebellion but it was always easier to simply hang on to him, right? That's the day I learned how to swim. I believe I eventually got even with spit.
A red boy's bike was my means of transportation. I demanded to have a boy's bike and, of course, it HAD to be red. I believed it was a sturdier bike being made for a boy and all, so that's what I wanted and got. We'd fly up and down those mostly deserted roads and I became adept at balancing, not even touching the handlebars. Hands flung wide, hugging the wind; I'd compete with him to see who could go the farthest hands free. You never knew who would win our daily races on the long straightaway main road. We were both so eager to be the victor, I remember us being pretty evenly matched, although he may have let me win sometimes so I'd continue to play that game, one of his favorites.
My brother also taught me to shoot his b-b gun. We'd set up a paper target under the sweet gum tree and practice, practice, practice. Sharp shooters had nothing on us. I pitied the poor squirrel, rabbit or bird that was unfortunate enough to come into our sights. We rarely missed. Sometimes when my brother was particularly irked with me … again, he'd shoot me with his b-b gun in the back. The back was all he could hit because I'd be running as swift as a deer away from him. It never hurt; I think he waited until I was far enough along before pulling the trigger. Perhaps he was using me for target practice. Spit comes to mind again, not sure why.
Growing up in Spring, Texas, was an exceptional way to begin my life. My brother prepared me for many trials and tribulations that have been set before me. I'm a stronger woman because of him, I get along with the male species in ways that some of my female friends envy and have even been considered "just one of the guys", a compliment I cherish. PLUS I can spit pretty dang accurately, an asset I've yet to figure out how to use to my advantage, but when I do I'll show my big brother how it's done.
A red boy's bike was my means of transportation. I demanded to have a boy's bike and, of course, it HAD to be red. I believed it was a sturdier bike being made for a boy and all, so that's what I wanted and got. We'd fly up and down those mostly deserted roads and I became adept at balancing, not even touching the handlebars. Hands flung wide, hugging the wind; I'd compete with him to see who could go the farthest hands free. You never knew who would win our daily races on the long straightaway main road. We were both so eager to be the victor, I remember us being pretty evenly matched, although he may have let me win sometimes so I'd continue to play that game, one of his favorites.
My brother also taught me to shoot his b-b gun. We'd set up a paper target under the sweet gum tree and practice, practice, practice. Sharp shooters had nothing on us. I pitied the poor squirrel, rabbit or bird that was unfortunate enough to come into our sights. We rarely missed. Sometimes when my brother was particularly irked with me … again, he'd shoot me with his b-b gun in the back. The back was all he could hit because I'd be running as swift as a deer away from him. It never hurt; I think he waited until I was far enough along before pulling the trigger. Perhaps he was using me for target practice. Spit comes to mind again, not sure why.
Growing up in Spring, Texas, was an exceptional way to begin my life. My brother prepared me for many trials and tribulations that have been set before me. I'm a stronger woman because of him, I get along with the male species in ways that some of my female friends envy and have even been considered "just one of the guys", a compliment I cherish. PLUS I can spit pretty dang accurately, an asset I've yet to figure out how to use to my advantage, but when I do I'll show my big brother how it's done.
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