A Girl Named Bessie

Bessie

Baby Girl
So, she made it known, if Curly, Leonard, Bianchi, and LaLa had real names, she should too. Baby Girl is not really a name and she deserved one just as much as the rest.

She had her point, but what should we call her? We thought of Elizabeth many times and wondered why. It certainly had the dignity she was seeking but it just did not fit. We slept on this dilemma for a week or two, and then finally, someone said Bessie. Could that be it -- a name with determination for a determined little girl? We decided to sleep on it just one more night.

The next morning we still liked it, but decided to keep it between the two of us while I was at work, to give her time to digest the change, and to make room for any last-minute change of heart. She later admitted to whispering her secret in LaLa's ear, which was a good choice for a confidante since he only speaks Tiger. That night, she made her announcement: She is no longer Baby Girl; she is Bessie. Since then, on occasion, she has allowed family to also call her Bessie Girl.

It's interesting to know, this source says Bess and Elizabeth are Hebrew names that mean "house, God's promise, and God is my oath."

That's the end of this story . . . but it reminded me of another . . .

Bobbie and me, Mother's Day 1958

BaBa
I was pretty little when I first met her, so I have no idea why I called her BaBa. Her real name was Bessie, but everyone in my family called her Bobbie and claimed I had renamed her.

When I was a little girl I had a wonderful babysitter, a sixty-something woman with white hair, large hands, a soft Texas drawl, a gentle loving nature, and sometimes the sparkle of mischief in her eyes!

I expect her life had not been easy. She was a young woman during the Great Depression; her husband worked for the railroad. The photograph of President Franklin Roosevelt on her living room wall seemed to tell it all, but I'm still not certain what all of it was. A search online reveals moving from Texas to New Mexico to Colorado . . . decades of moving around from one tiny town to another until they got to Trinidad, Colorado and eventually Pueblo, Colorado.

When I was high school age, she told me about her job as a cook in a cancer ward. Her grown daughter, who lived with her, had a cleft palate that made her speech hard to follow. Despite all this, my babysitter was a gentle, kind woman who just moved forward through her life.

She was well-known in her church. I know because she brought me with her to the annual Mother-Daughter Dinner several times.

She loved to retell a sweet story about the two of us. I'll save that for another day, but suffice it to say the punch line ("BaBa, Mindy wants an egg") confirms I was calling her BaBa -- not Bobbie. Nevertheless, Bobbie is who she became. I'm guessing it was my mother's invention; she probably did not like calling her daughter's babysitter something that sounded like Bubbah.

For me, she was the closest thing to a doting grandmother -- someone to make a fuss over me. Both of my grandmothers loved me but neither was doting. Perhaps that is why we always made a visit to Bobbie's home every Mother's Day and Christmas.

Her small backyard was crowded with fruit trees; the peach tree (trees?) was her favorite. I think it had something to do with her early years in Texas. I remember her discussing freestone versus cling peaches with  my dad and wondering what stones had to do with peaches! Ha! I can't remember for sure which she had but I want to say that they concluded the cling peaches were more trouble to eat but they tasted better...but then again, I may have made-up that part!

I remember for sure, her roses were grown under Mason jars, each one in its own private greenhouse. Often, she would say in her thickest drawl, "Well, I have to go irrigate." So I wonder, did she grow up on a farm somewhere in Texas? I wish I knew more about her childhood.

In her old age she struggled with her breathing -- emphysema, I think. Still, when my mom called and put me on the phone, Bobbie told me she was not doing so well and could not do any handsprings or cartwheels today. That was it; no long stories of illness; just a short line with a smile at the end of it. I have a photo of her as a very young woman, dressed in a long white dress with her arms folded and resting upon the back of a tall open-backed chair. She had a big bright smile on her face and a twinkle in her eyes. That girl could definitely do a cartwheel and a handspring!

I miss her to this day.

Columbine

The Flower

The columbine comes in many colors. The Rocky Mountain columbine, a medium blue variety, is the state flower of Colorado (my birth state). It comes in many colors as shown here.

The Block

My Dear Jane block, K11 - Columbine, is hand-pieced.The center star is made from the same fabric as I used in Jud's Trophy. Anina asks an intersting question: Why did Jane cut off the points of this star? Anina suggests it was left over from another project. I'm wondering if Jane goofed and made it too large -- and then decided to cut it back. Either way, I was surprised to see another star. I thought there were only 4 stars in the Dear Jane Quilt-- all in the center.

The Massacre
Sadly, "columbine" has another association for me -- the Columbine High School massacre.

The Babysitter
On a happier note, the first time I saw a columbine was at the home of my babysitter, Bessie Edwards. The columbines were in the flower bed in front of her modest home. I love the delicate spikes (spurs) on the backs of the blooms. Out back, she had roses under mason jars -- each one in its own private hot house. As the summer progressed, the roses came out of their jars. She had peach trees, too. When it got really hot and dry, she'd say (in her Texas drawl), "I've got to go irr'gate." Bessie was a gentle grandmother type. I remember her fluffy white hair and her large hands gnarled by arthritis.

I called her Baba -- and later, Bobbie. My family tells me that I was trying to call her Mama and it came out wrong due to my adenoids. I definitely had adenoid problems but I doubt this story -- otherwise I would have called my own mother Baba, too. Anyway, in the end, no one in my family ever called her Bessie; we all called her Bobbie! Even an old family friend who lived on our block called her Bobbie! Bobbie's home was a bit of a time warp with old furniture, old kitchen appliances, and a photograph of President Franklin Roosevelt on a prominent wall in the living room. I'm sure Bobbie's life was not easy. She raised a daughter alone; as an adult, Evelyn lived with her mother. I don't know what happened to Bobbie's husband. I never met him nor heard her talk of him other than to say he worked for the railroad. And, I don't know how she and Evelyn ended up moving to Colorado. Bobbie used to tell me about working in a hospital cancer ward. She loved to tell this story all the time . . .

I must have been 3 or 4 years old. It was morning and Bobbie offered me an egg for breakfast. I declined the egg and we headed to the grocery store. When we got to the dairy section and I spotted the eggs, I started droning, "Baba, Mindy wants an egg. Baba, Mindy wants an egg." For me, knowing that Bobbie found this story funny (rather than proof I was annoying) affirms that she was warm, accepting, and generous of spirit. One reason I loved to hear her tell this story (for the rest of Bobbie's life) was hearing Bobbie's imitation of me with her Texas drawl. Why has it taken all these years for me to wonder if I spoke with a Texas drawl when I was with her? It's too late now to ask anyone. I do know that sometimes, a slight Texas something comes into my speech. I'll try to write it the way it sounded when Bobbie said it: "Baa-buh, Mendy wants 'n'ag."