My "Other" Mother and Stories of West Texas

Uncle R.L. and Lake Spence stripers

Growing up, Aunt Evelyn and Uncle R.L. were my second parents. Still are. My childhood has been enriched with the love and happy memories of these folks. Their children, my cousins, were more like siblings to my brother and me. It was, in fact, years before my Mama broke it to us that we weren't blood relatives, not that it mattered one whit.

Bear and I were "city slickers" compared to Margaret, Randy and Renea. They grew up in very small west Texas towns, with names like Pecos, Ballinger and Robert Lee. Our families managed to get together at least three or four times a year, and we always traveled to their home. Here, Bear and I were allowed to get dirty, chunk rocks, swim the river, and attempt high jinks never allowed in our usual routine. The adults pretty much left us to fend for ourselves most of the time, and Margaret was the designated little mother over all of us. She was level-headed and reigned the boss whenever arguments arose.

Late one fall, our parents were on the lake fishing. Having been longtime friends themselves, they often would pass hours playing bridge or fishing without giving us more than a brief thought. Renea, who was much younger than the four of us, would usually be up at Grandma Velma's house just a few blocks away. We had come into the house from playing outside, and the sun was setting. The evening brought a quick chill, and the Bear decided HE would light the gas Dearborn heater. Now, if you have never used a clayback heater, you might be unfamiliar with its finer intracacies. Takes a certain knack to lighting these, and Bear thought he knew everything there was to know about firing one up. Margaret argued with him, and in the end decided it was pointless to protest. This was a monumental bad decision. Truth be told, my brother could argue a grizzly just awakened from his winter hibernation out of his first springtime supper. Margaret knew this, but told him to have at it if he was so all-fired smart as he thought. Randy and I were giving pointers about how you should strike the match first, hold it to the small jets along the bottom, and slowly turn the gas lever. The Bear brushed us off with a gruff, "I know, stupid". The first match was struck and Bear lowered it too fast to the jets, which caused it to blow out. Leaving the gas lever wide open, he strikes another, which took a couple of swipes to the grit paper on the kitchen match box before catching fire. By the time he got the next match close to the jets, enough gas had accumulated to cause a brief sudden flare and loud pop.

Nevermind that this little adventure could have ended disastrously, it has been a favorite retold story. The Bear, who also was quite the preener when it came to his Brylcreamed, "a little dab'll do ya", flat-top haircut, suffered mostly a blow to his pride. As he jumped backward, the flames licked just enough of his face to singe the inch and half of the well-groomed flattop, and crisp his eyebrows and eyelash tips. The smell of burning hair wafted out from his head, and after seeing that he was not mortally wounded, the laughter ensued. Randy, whose giggle was more high-pitched than mine, fell rolling onto the rug barely able to do more than point and guffaw. My brother ran to the bathroom, and locked the door. Margaret, who by this time was beginning to worry about parental unit disapproval over the episode, demanded the Bear open the door so she could inspect his face for any major damage. Furtively, he poked his head out briefly, and Margaret lost it. She,too, caught the hilarity fits. The door slams again. After wiping our eyes and waiting what seemed like an eternity for our hiccups to subside, we decided to go outside and leave the pouter to himself.

Renea had a four-seater "whirl-a-gig" in the front yard and we climbed on to spin a while. With my back turned to the front door, I was the closest victim to catch the anger of the Bear when he finally decided to leave his bathroom sanctuary. Our teasing had brought out the real reason for the nickname, "Bear". I caught his fist full in the middle of the back, became unseated, and fell into the grass and subsequent goathead stickers. Screaming every cuss word I knew, I leapt at singed-hair boy, flailing arms and spit in his direction. Margaret, the wise peacemaker, steps in, and quells the battle. "I'm telling your dad, Karl, " in a sharp, you-better-listen voice.

I think it was several years before we confessed this escapade to our parents. No sense giving them a heart attack and inviting a curtailing of our adventures. Whenever we all get together now, we forget about anyone else in the room, and through our stories, we are once again 12, 10 and 8. Time falls away and we get lost in our laughter and memories. The Bear still gets his dander ruffled when we strike up the heater story, though. I make sure I am a good deal further than an arms length away from him, too. Just in case.


Margaret and Pattie