Family

Tiny Duchess

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The year has started already and I am slow to start with it.  No resolutions. No new goals.  Just continue to make time with the Duchesses. 

The two older ones are busier these days. I will need to work harder to get in their schedule.  That is part of the process of growing up.  I am thankful I am still able to go and do with them. I am anxious to have a weekend with them again.  I am missing my no longer little Duchesses.

The little one has a hold on me like no one. The first two were a pair.  A lot of time we have is the two of them playing with each other. I suppose it is because in the first days of this Tiny Duchess, I was with my little one so much more.   Or more likely, it is the place I am in my life now.  Older, retired, more time on my hands.  Maybe it is just her.    

At any rate, if I go too many days without seeing her, I start to feel unsettled.  We are hoping she will be ready to spend the night with us soon.  She is like her Paw Paw.  Wants to sleep in her own bed in her own room at her own house.  Don’t tell Paw Paw, but Granny is getting that way, too.

Over my lifetime, I have spent a lot of time with little ones.  Babies and toddlers and preschoolers.  I have known a lot of very sharp little minds.  This tiniest Duchess seems to have an edge on all of them.  I did notice a touch of stubbornness yesterday.  Certainly not her father’s hard headedness, but just a little of wanting to do something and not as easily redirected. 

She is always talking about her Paw Paw.  Wakes up in the morning asking for him, cries for him when she gets tired.  He plays with her like a kid.  The baby whisperer, he has been called.

 Watch his face when he talks to a little one.  He is fully engaged and animated.  To the rest of the world, he is rough around the edges and tough as old boot leather.  But, with children, he is laughter and tickles and tumbling and racing.  It has been said very accurately that you cannot be sensitive and be friends with him.  That is true.  But, not for little ones, certainly not for the Duchesses.  And absolutely not for the Tiny Duchess. 

Ghost Ship

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New Year’s Day, we spent time on the Bolivar Peninsula.  Looking toward the open sea, I saw a monster vessel coming in through the haze.  Heading up the ship channel to one of the ports. 

How many times did my father make that passage to Texas City?  He worked in the engine room of an oil tanker.  Sabine Towing and Transportation.  S.S. Guadalupe.  Diamond S.  He sailed on the S.S. Brazos a time or two.  The company was locally operated, though owned by Chromaloy.  They took very good care of Daddy when he was sick.  They flew him home one time when his bipolar depression got too bad while aboard ship.  I remember he had lost his false teeth; and I remember going with Mother to the airport to pick him up. 

I also remember the smell of his Old Spice cologne and King Edward cigars.  The whiteness of his tee shirt.  The tan of his khakis.  How his head felt when Mother had freshly cut his hair.  Just bare clippers run over his entire scalp.  He liked pipes and Louis L’Amour.  He preferred a flat bottom aluminum boat and running trot lines.  He liked to squirrel hunt rather than deer hunt. 

When he was younger and well, he always had a project going.  Some scheme with fishing or planting or brewing usually.  When he was older and sick, he would again try to work on projects. 

He taught me how to fix bicycle tires and to tinker with lawn mowers.  He let me paint the clothesline poles.  He let me argue with him about current events.  I would get so worked up and he would let me go on with my temper flaring.  He never told me to be quiet or anything.  Mother would finally intervene and hush us up.  He didn’t get mad.  He just seemed to want me to debate about things and to learn to see both sides of things.  To look beyond my own scope of understanding and see something more.  And to respect what generations before me had endured. 

That ship in the haze certainly was real.  And it definitely stirred up a ghost in my memories.