Our cousin, Jackie Lee, was two years older than my brother, Carroll. She immediately dubbed him “Boy Baby.” The name stuck. She used it throughout her life. It was a term of endearment she used only within the family. She never used the term in any situation that might embarrass him.
Jackie lived in town. She enjoyed visits to the farm. She got to help feed the chickens, gather the eggs, and watch the cows being milked.
The little farm boy often took advantage of Jackie’s gullibility. There were no green lawns at the dairy, only hard pebbly soil. There were small rocks in a variety of shapes and colors. The cousins each had a can and were collecting rocks. Carroll said, “Look Jackie. Here is a pretty one. You can have it.” Jackie bent down, reached out a small hand and grabbed a glob of chicken poop. (Yes, black or brownish chicken excrement with a little white on top can glisten in the sunlight.)
Another time they were running and playing. They got very hot and sweaty. Carroll told her if they went into the barn to the oat bin and rolled in the oats, the oats would cool them off. Of course, Jackie went first. She immediately started stinging and itching. I can visualize her running to the house crying in discomfort. Years later when they told this, Carroll grinned and wryly said, “I think I got a whipping for that one.”
Through the years they often recounted stories of their antics. They had fun together and had a special bond. The family enjoyed listening to their stories and laughing with them.
