"House on 3rd Street" Bonus Content

From The House on Third Street and Avenue B:

…serious dog-and-child conversations about how well this batch of mudpies turned out. “Didn’t they? Two extra scoops of Daddy’s dirt made all the difference.”

Y’all, when I was little, I made mud pies like I had orders backed up. Dirt confections. I would fill aluminum pie pans with dark mud batter, line them up along the side of the house and let the sun bake them done. I used Daddy’s dirt, just like Clarence and Edna Ashlock’s little girl did. I perfected and honed the recipes. I relied on my little terrier Midge’s advice as I drove her around in Daddy’s wheelbarrow filled with mud pies that were “done” and ready for…well, I don’t know what they were ready for, but it was urgent business I attended to at all times.

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My husband gave me this print several years back, in honor of my mud pies and because Daddy worked for Mobil Oil Company.

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I was never one for dolls, didn’t play with them. I had a “real live doll” in the form of little Midge. It was a challenge for Mama and Daddy to buy Christmas presents for me. When I was four, I asked for one thing for Christmas—a jump rope. Well, it just about killed Mama to think all they would put under the tree was a jump rope. (In addition to several new dresses and adorable shoes, but still.)

So, Christmas Eve we opened presents, and out of nowhere, I asked, “Where’s the ice cream truck?” Mama and Daddy were stricken. Daddy remembered I’d mentioned off-handedly several months earlier when I saw a blue-and-white ice cream truck in the hardware store that I wanted it. Of course I did. It was practical and I could use it for a lot of enterprising things I got up to, like hauling mud pies and collecting beans from the two poor mimosa trees in front of our house. “Poor” because it’s all a mimosa tree can do to survive in the dry, windy climate on the Llano Estacado.

Anyway, my parents had not gotten the aforementioned ice cream truck. What to do?! What to do?!

It was a small town. Of course, they knew the owner of the store. Called him. He met Daddy at the store that Christmas Eve. He pushed open the door, past the CLOSED sign and sold Daddy the little truck. I got it on Christmas morning.

I rarely drove it, instead I turned it upside down in the yard and “processed” mimosa beans through the gear chain that connected the front and rear tires, then stored the processed beans in the compartment at the back.

I would load some special mud pies in it, too—I guess with the intention of delivering them to anxious customers. I was only allowed to ride on the sidewalk—never cross the street—so my customer base was pretty small.

Another present I valued was a little electric stove and oven. Got it for my fourth birthday. It was adorable. And I never used it. Mama—who was persnickety beyond words—told me that making cake batter and baking the little layers in the oven that was heated by a light bulb would be a mess and we’d do it another time.

In an earlier episode, “Skippy Fairweather and the Two-Headed Calf,” the parts about Jerry Dale and her foibles at the soda fountain aren’t entirely fiction but based on some real challenges my mother had with basic food preparation skills. Daddy used to say, “Lucinda, it takes your mother two hours to get nervous enough to START cooking.” My mother had a brilliant career—she was an expert in her field and rose quickly to manage title insurance offices. Her persnickety attention to detail and her knowledge and experience were sought-after time and again, making it almost impossible for her to retire—even though she tried over and over, only to be called back to handle special projects that involved complicated title work. But domestic skills were challenging as always.

One other story: When I was in band—briefly—we had uniforms that consisted of blue blazers and black stretch pants with stirrups—remember those? The pants were sent home with me, with instructions to have my mother take them up in the stride. The look on Mama’s face. Daddy commented, “Lucinda, your mother could take up your stride easier than she could take up those pants.”

Thank you for reading and listening to my stories.

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