The Little Girls

The Little Girls

by gina below


There was a time many years ago early in our careers as corn row assassins that we were notorious. We were tomboy terrors of the tomato field and we could manage to find trouble most anywhere. We were mayhem magnified by three, walking, talking, Calamity Jane's. Afraid of nothing, but spiders, snakes, spankings and the dark. Lucky for most people you could hear us coming a long way off, the giggling & talking always preceded us, which gave you ample time to flee in the other direction. We were so notorious that we had a name for our gang, we had been dubbed ...."THE LITTLE GIRLS"!

We could make grown men roll their eyes in frustration and walk away shaking their heads, with total confusion etched upon their faces. But we terrorized none more than our Great Uncle James. Poor Uncle James, he just did not know what to do with us most days. We would gang up on the sweet man and strike him speechless with our rapid fire questions. We had not known a time without him, he was more of a Grandfather to the lot of us, a benevolent protector that took us fishing. But our shenanigans on more than one occasion got us sent home to our Mother or in the house to see what our Aunt Vera was doing. But on the occasions when he had no other recourse, he would have to handle us himself. That was usually a slightly raised voice saying " You boys better stop that now" and we would immediately stop what we were doing to correct him. With hands on our hips and a look of total disbelief on our faces, we would say in unison with a slightly high pitched whine "We're not boys, we're girls" and then we would cock our heads ever so dramatically and look up to the heavens for understanding for this poor confused man that we adored. With a smile playing at his lips he would say in an innocent response, "Well I guess you are, aren't you, I would have sworn you were boys", and we would giggle and go on about our business leaving him in blessed peace.

He was fourth of July with hand cranked home made ice cream, watermelons under the shade tree, and ice cold Coke in a glass bottle and my first job pickin' cotton and most of my summer jobs there after in the sweet potato field. He was Wrigley's chewing gum and peppermint candy, and sitting on the same church pew every Sunday with my Aunt Vera. He was a straw hat with a wide brim and overalls and he never missed a Christmas that he didn't bring us a box of apples and oranges. He was a wave from the porch swing as I drove by in later years when I became to busy to stop by.

The last time I saw him, he asked my younger sister (one of my former partners in crime) and I "How are you boys"? Our grown up selves would not let us reply in any other way but, "We're fine". But "The Little Girls" in us wanted to giggle and say "We're not boys, we're girls". As we hugged his neck he said, "I guess you are, aren't you" and he smiled that sweet smile of his and we did giggle. We could not help ourselves.