Heirship

Recently, my sisters, Dis and Dat, and I took a road trip to visit an antique mall in Vernon. Always an enjoyable trip, we look forward to spending time together and buying things we do not need. As I drove to Vernon, Dat as co-pilot, Dis was in the back seat preparing her Sunday School lesson on the book of Genesis. She asked me what is the meaning of heirship. After I made up a garble-de-gook definition that she understood, we started talking about our common parentage and growing up with two survivors of the Great Depression and World War II, each making the best of raising four girls. Our conversation prompted me to ask what was the one lesson each of our parents taught them with the stipulation that the lesson had to be in words, not by actions. They couldn’t answer the question at first but we did sentimentally journey into our past growing up in a home with no adult supervision. Our memories were as different as if we had no common heirship at all. Although the “socio-psychological-environ” experienced by each of us during childhood varied, we could agree that we grew up in a home with two special parents and with all their quirkiness; we were truly blessed.

We agreed that Mama made the home. She was raised in a small southern town in Mississippi and she spent our childhood cooking, cleaning and loving her family with all of her being. She had moved to Tuscaloosa in thirties, bringing her semi Cajun philosophy with her, to live with her brothers who worked at the paper mill. There she met a Tuscaloosa family and after dating several brothers, choose my dad and married him in 1937. She catered to our Daddy, waited on him and took care of his every need. Three babies were born during World War II and she loved to retell her stories of the struggles, war rations and the hardships they faced living in Pascagoula where my daddy worked at the shipyard. Mama loved being poor, that’s what she knew and she thrived in it. Following the war, they moved back to Tuscaloosa and I was born. When I started to school, our lost and bored mama went to work, holding retail jobs in order to buy shoes for four growing girls. In the early sixties, Mama went to work at Bryce Hospital and continued there for more than twenty years. She worked everyday but made sure that supper was on the table for us early so Daddy could go out to the pool hall, bowling alley or the Elks Club. She washed and ironed clothes while Daddy made strikes and played poker. She took naps. She taught us life skills through her actions. Life was good; but her lessons contradicted those taught by our Daddy.

We each had different memories of Daddy and only agreed in one thing – that he told us that if you couldn’t say something nice about someone, don’t say anything at all. Dis and Dat do not adhere to that adage ever, never. He was also from a family struggling with the economic hardships of their time, wanting to play baseball, dreaming of playing in the major leagues and swinging bats at balls all day. But he often missed practice to tend to the small garden that supplied vegetables for the family. It was during that time he swore when he grew up, he would never eat black-eyed peas again; and he didn’t. I have often said that Daddy taught me how to play poker, shoot pool and drink whiskey. Neither Dis nor Dat have poker faces, would probably be fixated on the cute little cube of blue chalk, and would think whiskey is worse than cough syrup. Perhaps, Mama spoiled Daddy; but he deserved the pampering he got. He worked steady and hard, played baseball in city leagues, bowled, and enjoyed his off-work time. He lived in a house with five women so who could blame him for spending his evenings away from home, often complaining that his ovaries hurt. His one true talent was to make each of us think that we were his favorite. He lived in the moment and his favorite was the one he was with.

I can easily say in one sentence what each of them taught me. Mama would always say to me: Education is the one thing no one can take from you. She inspired me to study and pursue a higher education. To which Dis and Dat claimed that she never even made them do their homework. Daddy taught me: Never cheat at Solitaire. To which Dis and Dat responded that they were his favorite. On a trip to a family reunion last year, the three of us played Rummy in the hotel room at night. I won, but Dis and Dat accused me of cheating because I remembered what cards they discarded, could tell which ones they needed and would not give them up when I had them. That was what Daddy taught me to do. He believed that no matter how many times you shuffled the deck, the cards are the same, thirteen of each suit.

As I consider our heirship, I do see a common mold. That mold has individual bumps and warts and I realize that I will never understand their common language of Twinese, nor was I meant to. Our mold makes us firm, steadfast, and loyal. If the phrase “same difference” has any meaning at all, it defines our heirship and hopefully we pass some of it to the next generation. But I was Daddy’s favorite, case closed.