Chapter 2: Irish: Make it a Double!

The paternal side of my family—stalwart. Mom’s side, colorful.

Mom, named after her two grandmothers, Virgie and Lillie Bell, busted into this world as Virgie Belle Pickrell on May 5, 1936.

            On December 23 of each year, my family gets together no matter what. It was once the wedding anniversary of my great-grandparents, H.C. (Henry) and Virgie Pickrell. It was also the day in which Henry’s parents, Jim and Alice married. This branch of Mom’s family was rooted in Fieldton, Texas. Jim was its first merchant. He was also a large landowner.

At its height, not much more than a couple of cotton gins, a grocer and two hundred citizens shared this community. Henry (who was strict in the ways of Church of Christ, his wishes and his will) built Fieldton’s school (long gone now). He ensured the bloodline of our rich dirt remained intact. Division of his land required that the possessor be a Pickrell. (The land couldn’t be sold outside the family for fifteen years.) The town was originally called Jaun Dell, named for Jim’s two granddaughters at the time, but was later changed to a name more suitable to the town’s scenery and location. It’s situated at the intersection of Farm roads 37 and 1072 on the Double Mountain Fork of the Brazos River and is located between Littlefield and Olton, small towns themselves, but still big to those of us who called Fieldton and Amherst home.

            Christmas 2004, I spent a short time with a fourth cousin of mine on the twenty-third. Jamie and Aaron had met only once, at the homecoming party held in Lubbock when Aaron returned from Iraq after his first trip. Though their visit had been brief, I later understood from Jamie that it’d been meaningful.

Jamie Kirksey, once a sergeant with 82^nd Airborne, was older than Aaron, closer to thirty. With a nine-year break in service, Jamie had enlisted with the Texas National Guard. He was due to leave for Iraq right after we toasted in 2005.

I talked to Jamie only briefly, at the end of the evening. With coats retrieved and buttoned, car engines warmed, annual obligations met, it was in the midst of this still cold Christmas that Jamie squared his shoulders and muscled his way next to me in my aunt’s kitchen in Littlefield. There I listened to and watched this fifth cousin of Aaron’s. I’d felt his eyes on me earlier in the night while the family laughed less than the previous Christmas, but tradition still alive, we exchanged ornaments in the great room, after we munched on peeled shrimp, small sandwiches and baked ham.

In the kitchen, Jamie’s eyes, engaged with purpose, his frame forceful, his voice low and full. He whispered to no one but me, the hero’s mother. In that moment, I understood the significance of genes, or at least their loyalty in a bloodline, no matter how far removed. The fifth cousins’ personalities were indistinguishable. Hard headed. Loyal.

We promised to write, to e-mail, to keep in touch.

Mercy. To be in touch with life in Iraq once again. I know it pleased my mom. On January 8, 2005, she gave me the following letter to include with mine.

Hey Jamie,

            I’ve wondered what I could write to you about. De’on read your e-mail to me, so now I know what I can write about and that is your family history. It has a way of making you feel a “part” more than anything.

            Your great-great grandmother and Grandfather Thomas were something else. They were the sweetest people—just absolutely great. She read the Bible constantly. I guess the only other thing was, they had sex—a lot—because they had fourteen children—of which Mama Curry was one.

            Papa Curry’s family is smaller. Grandma McCurry and Grandpa McCurry lived in Glendale, California. My first visit was to them. I loved them dearly. I can’t remember when Grandpa died, but Grandma died when De’on was a baby.

            She loved wrestling on TV, but the funniest thing about her was this: T.G., Papa Curry’s brother, was always coming in drunk. Grandma McCurry was pretty sassy, so she waited until he passed out, and then sewed him in the sheet. When he woke up, she used a belt and whipped his sassy butt.

            We are all so much kin; it’s nearly sinful. Maurine Leftwich, your grandmother, married Uncle Doug—Rose married my cousin, Bobby Day—my first cousin on the Pickrell side was my third cousin on the McCurry side.

            From the time I was about eleven years old, I spent each summer taking a two-week vacation at Mama and Papa Curry’s house. I loved Mama Curry more than I loved anyone. She was a heavy (fat?) woman with enormous breasts and wore a dress and panties—no bra! Uncle Doug used to just about die off—he was so humiliated, but she just told him to shove it, which I can understand. De’on and I despise elastic too.

            You are a warrior and come from a long line of them. In fact, your Uncle T.G. was in the Navy during World War II. Uncle Doug was a tail gunner in the Army and Uncle Lonnie—one of the big boys in the Marines. One of the fourteen children on the Thomas side was KIA. Rudolph was his name and I think he was killed in France. He may even be buried over there.

            This is the first installment on the life and times of the McCurry, Thomas, Pickrell, and Leftwich family—more to come, so stay tuned.

            I’m so glad De’on has you—she will smother you with love—and I’m glad.

            Be safe and God bless,

            Aunt Virgie

            P.S. I’m really a third cousin, but as I say, our kinship knows no end!

            P.S.S. 12 hours later—it was Linda who visited in Glendale with Grandma and Grandpa McCurry. I was born in Amherst at home. Linda was born in California. I saw that in her baby book. You are also kin to the Pickrell’s in two ways—Grandma McCurry was a Qualls’ and my dad’s sister married a Qualls’. Aunt Maurine says it’s some kind of genetic calling that we all stick close to the family and I agree—we are truly a very wonderful family—and Jamie, I do love you—I adore Aunt Maurine and Uncle Doug. I’ll send you a copy of a poem I wrote your mother years and years ago. Mama Curry called her Miss Marsh, and our story of her is adorable. She stole my heart when I was about twelve years old, but that’s in the next installment!

The ties are confusing, but Mom’s paternal side is Pickrell and Qualls. Wells, thrown in there somehow too. Her maternal side is McCurry (or our lazy-Texas-shortened Curry) and Thomas. Inundated with Irish we are. I know Jim Pickrell’s kids had a major falling out and I don’t believe the buds of those particular branches ever recovered from the storm, but their children’s heirs did to a degree. I think we all acknowledge now, various branches do subsist outside our own. I think. Mom tells me they passed down the same names a lot. Jim. Alice. Charles.

            Virgie.

            Complication in its simplest form.

On February 3, 2005, Mom sends her second and last installment, void of the poem she’d promised. Quite the installment plan. But that’s Virgie.

Dear Jamie,

            First I want to thank you for being over in Iraq as an American soldier willing to risk your life in the cause of freedom and the fight against terror—for doing this and for staying in touch with De’on—it has given her a new lease on life—I’m very grateful.

            I really don’t know why I started this family history thing, other than to have something write about, so here goes.

            The Great Depression of the United States was a horrible time and I guess Mama and Papa Curry had just about as hard a time as anyone. Those that owned land where they could grow food and raise their own pork, chicken, beef, etc.—it was different for them, but those people were very few and far in between. My mother, your Aunt Ferol, was forever telling me stories, and now I’m so glad, so I can write to you.

            Needless to say, Papa Curry did not own anything but his little family. He worked like a dog to support them and he never, ever complained. Papa Curry’s greatest love was your Mama Curry. Theirs was a love that could transcend the test of time and withstand whatever circumstances came their way—but jobs were absolutely non-existent and a man had to feed his family and put a bed down for them somewhere—but sometimes that job just did not exist.

            Mama Curry’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa Thomas, had land and food and one time Papa Curry was forced to send his beloved “Lillie Bell” and his two babies by train to Grandma and Grandpa Thomas. They had cut it very close indeed, for it took every dime they had to buy train tickets for a one-way trip. I can just imagine how heartbroken they were, for their life was truly each other—but it had come to this: Papa Curry could sleep on the ground and do day labor to feed himself—his family could not. They must have faced things that we can’t even imagine. Mother was a toddler and Uncle Lonnie a baby. Mama Curry could nurse Uncle Lonnie—her and the toddler could wait to eat until her parents could feed them, but needless to say, it was killing Mama Curry that my mother was hungry. On the train, Mama Curry found a little coin purse with enough money to buy my mother some milk and a little food.

            My mother’s shoes were from a fire sale—the tops were burnt, but her socks turned down over them and were so polished that I’m sure she looked like a little princess. Mother said that one time a teacher called Uncle Lonnie to her desk to show the other kids an example of class and dignity. “Here is an example to all of you. Being poor does not mean being dirty. Lonnie McCurry is a perfect example.” Uncle Lonnie’s shoes had the tops burnt off too, but his socks also covered the tops.

            You are a hero, Jamie. You come from a long line of heroes and these two people, our grandparents, are among the best of them.

            God bless and keep you, Jamie.

            Love,

            Aunt Virgie

Things are better in Iraq now. The security of Al Anbar, handed over to the Sunni tribes during Labor Day, caused my eyes to water more than once yesterday.

“Mission complete,” my sister said.

Yes, some missions are complete.

Nearly three years ago, Jamie addressed me as his aunt, his cousin, and most times as Nomi, which is what I’d wanted Aaron’s future children to call me. Nomi was a hidden plea for my grandchildren to know me because I’d felt certain once Aaron left home for the final time, he’d live far away.

What a prophecy.

Papa and Mama Curry survived the Depression and their nest fit four children in all. Papa Curry served as a police officer and walked a beat down Broadway in the early days of Lubbock, Texas. I barely remember him, if at all, though I’ll never forget Mama Curry, who eventually died with cancer. Before her death, the disease robbed her colon, her teeth, and even the size of her breasts. Breasts the size of watermelons. But some entities even cancer couldn’t steal. Her smile and a ribcage free of elastic bondage.