Aunt Ber-Ber, or 99 Years
My great-great-aunt Ber-Ber is turning 99 soon.
Not surprisingly, she's probably my oldest living relative (at least in the nearer circles of kinship) - the youngest out of my grandfather's 10 siblings. And as you might expect, she doesn't hear very well nor move around easily; but I don't know anyone who has a better memory than she does. Ber-Ber could tell you stories.
You can imagine all there is for her to tell about, from the early days of her life, living in a small east Texas community, through to last year, when she had to flee her little house in the wake of Hurricane Rita -- let me tell you, she did not like having to be away from home for the two or three weeks required to get Jasper back into electricity. (Even if she was living in relative comfort with my great-uncle and aunt, who not only have air conditioning, but also provided her with plenty of hot meals and as many paperbacks as she could devour.)
One of my proudest moments came about because of one of Ber-Ber's stories. My great-grandmother, "Mamaw" Berryman, spent the last years of her life in the nursing home where her brother-in-law (one of Ber-Ber's older siblings) had been living, and we did our best to visit as often as we could, in spite of our family's very busy schedule (I was beginning high school at this point). When Ber-Ber got wind of the Christmas program the nursing home was planning, she decided that the residents would enjoy a piece she'd written about her own memories of childhood Christmases -- and she asked me to read it for her during the program. Although my theatrical whims hadn't yet taken full effect, I remember the excitement (and nervous dread) of getting to perform a Public Reading (just like Anne Shirley! I couldn't help but think), and I practiced and practiced that piece until it was perfect. When the day came and the whole nursing home was gathered into that big meeting room, strung with lights and tinsel and plastic holly branches, I read Ber-Ber's memory with all my heart, proud to be part of that time when getting an orange and some pecans in your stocking was actually an exciting thing.
The other thing that comes to mind when I think of Ber-Ber is her "other home," which we all knew as the Berrypatch, after Ber-Ber's maiden name, Berryman. The Berrypatch was even smaller than her house in town, only one room, outfitted with a kitchen in one corner, a fireplace at the other end, and old iron beds stuffed in every open space. Even though dad rebuilt and updated the Outhouse during one of our summer visits, it was a bit too far from the house, in my opinion. And to complete the "frontier" experience (probably the only one I ever had), we kids always trooped with glee behind Dad when he announced that he was going to the Well. I still feel the awe of leaning over and gazing down into that deep pit, squinting to see the sunlight reflected in the cool water, breathing in the damp smell of moss, and then jumping back with a start when my brother points out the huge spider crawling stealthily along the bricked walls. . . Well, there are plenty of stories to tell about Ber-Ber's Berrypatch, but that'll save for another day.
Yes, Ber-Ber could tell you stories. But she'd rather tell you jokes; even better, she'd rather tell stories that are as funny as jokes. I don't think she ever visited my dad's drugstore in Nacogdoches without entertaining any and everyone there there with a good joke or two; and she might sit quietly through most family gatherings, but you better bet that the minute she thought things were going downhill, she'd jump right in and have us all shaking our heads and chuckling within a few moments.
Have you heard this one? Ber-Ber was in the hospital a year or so ago (only for a short visit; she's a very healthy nonagenarian), and when her niece Kay called to check on her, she carried on the whole conversation, but never could quite hear who Kay said she was. So at the end of the call, Kay told Ber-Ber she loved her, and what could Ber-Ber say but "I love you, too, whoever you are!"
We'll be in Jasper at the Catfish Cabin on Saturday to celebrate, in case anyone wants to join us.
Not surprisingly, she's probably my oldest living relative (at least in the nearer circles of kinship) - the youngest out of my grandfather's 10 siblings. And as you might expect, she doesn't hear very well nor move around easily; but I don't know anyone who has a better memory than she does. Ber-Ber could tell you stories.
Ber-Ber lives in a small house that is too old to have ever had central air and heat. It used to be situated in quite a nice part of town, but she's lived there long enough to see that change, too. I've only been to her house a few times, but I remember her piano (which she let me play, back when I could do that sort of thing) and her blooming backyard.
You can imagine all there is for her to tell about, from the early days of her life, living in a small east Texas community, through to last year, when she had to flee her little house in the wake of Hurricane Rita -- let me tell you, she did not like having to be away from home for the two or three weeks required to get Jasper back into electricity. (Even if she was living in relative comfort with my great-uncle and aunt, who not only have air conditioning, but also provided her with plenty of hot meals and as many paperbacks as she could devour.)
One of my proudest moments came about because of one of Ber-Ber's stories. My great-grandmother, "Mamaw" Berryman, spent the last years of her life in the nursing home where her brother-in-law (one of Ber-Ber's older siblings) had been living, and we did our best to visit as often as we could, in spite of our family's very busy schedule (I was beginning high school at this point). When Ber-Ber got wind of the Christmas program the nursing home was planning, she decided that the residents would enjoy a piece she'd written about her own memories of childhood Christmases -- and she asked me to read it for her during the program. Although my theatrical whims hadn't yet taken full effect, I remember the excitement (and nervous dread) of getting to perform a Public Reading (just like Anne Shirley! I couldn't help but think), and I practiced and practiced that piece until it was perfect. When the day came and the whole nursing home was gathered into that big meeting room, strung with lights and tinsel and plastic holly branches, I read Ber-Ber's memory with all my heart, proud to be part of that time when getting an orange and some pecans in your stocking was actually an exciting thing.
The other thing that comes to mind when I think of Ber-Ber is her "other home," which we all knew as the Berrypatch, after Ber-Ber's maiden name, Berryman. The Berrypatch was even smaller than her house in town, only one room, outfitted with a kitchen in one corner, a fireplace at the other end, and old iron beds stuffed in every open space. Even though dad rebuilt and updated the Outhouse during one of our summer visits, it was a bit too far from the house, in my opinion. And to complete the "frontier" experience (probably the only one I ever had), we kids always trooped with glee behind Dad when he announced that he was going to the Well. I still feel the awe of leaning over and gazing down into that deep pit, squinting to see the sunlight reflected in the cool water, breathing in the damp smell of moss, and then jumping back with a start when my brother points out the huge spider crawling stealthily along the bricked walls. . . Well, there are plenty of stories to tell about Ber-Ber's Berrypatch, but that'll save for another day.
Yes, Ber-Ber could tell you stories. But she'd rather tell you jokes; even better, she'd rather tell stories that are as funny as jokes. I don't think she ever visited my dad's drugstore in Nacogdoches without entertaining any and everyone there there with a good joke or two; and she might sit quietly through most family gatherings, but you better bet that the minute she thought things were going downhill, she'd jump right in and have us all shaking our heads and chuckling within a few moments.
Have you heard this one? Ber-Ber was in the hospital a year or so ago (only for a short visit; she's a very healthy nonagenarian), and when her niece Kay called to check on her, she carried on the whole conversation, but never could quite hear who Kay said she was. So at the end of the call, Kay told Ber-Ber she loved her, and what could Ber-Ber say but "I love you, too, whoever you are!"
We'll be in Jasper at the Catfish Cabin on Saturday to celebrate, in case anyone wants to join us.
How fun to read about your aunt. Family is so special. With my grandparents being here this weekend, I've been hearing stories too and reflecting on the value of family. It's nice to have a friend who cherishes such things as well.
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