More than a few decades ago, in this house, on this date, a baby girl was born. The house at that time was unpainted. How it came to be barn red is another story for another time. A farmhouse with five rooms and a dogtrot made it home for my widowed grandfather, three of his six younger children who were still at home, my parents and me. My grandmother had died the previous year. My parents moved back home to “the place” in a symbiotic relationship. Mama did the “women’s work” and cared for her younger siblings who were nine, eleven, and teenage. In return, the house provided shelter for my parents who were beginning their lives as a young struggling country preacher’s family.
I don’t claim to remember the occasion, but the stories around it became family lore, and I will tell them as they were remembered over and over again by my mother. I was born in the early afternoon and Mama fretted particularly about Uncle Erskine’s reaction since he had been the baby in the family for all of his nine years. When he and Aunt Ruth arrived home from school in the afternoon, she called them in to meet their new niece. Uncle Erskine took one look and left the room, confirming Mama’s fears. However, she was immediately reassured when he returned with one of his sister’s toys and said, “Here’s a doll for her to play with.”
My three sisters and I wondered often about whether one of the stories was the truth or a joke. Daddy claimed that he and Mama had an agreement that he would name their girls, and she would name their boys. In this case, I think it was the truth since Daddy always explained his reasoning. In due time, there would be naming for grandmothers, but they were both dead. He thought I should be named for the great-grandmothers who were still living but old (74) while they would know they were so honored. So, I became Virginia (for Virginia Katherine) Ann (for Susanna Frances) and received the namesake quilts from each that was the custom at the time. The two women, who had been best friends since grade school and lived remarkably parallel lives, died within six months of each other when I was fifteen.
My parents claimed that we lasted in this living arrangement a little over a year until discipline fell apart. If Papaw corrected Aunt Ruth’s behavior, I cried. If Daddy exercised any discipline for me, Aunt Ruth irately reported to Mama that Berton was mistreating the baby. We moved to an apartment nearby where help could still be given as needed but the two fathers would have freedom to correct misbehavior.
I was born into richness, though not the kind most people see. Just think about it. How many newborns have a doll almost as big as they are or a defense attorney who is on their side even when they have misbehaved?