Thelma Louise (from 1974)

    Early morning September 6, 1929, a baby girl was born to Kirby and Hattie.  My grandmother wanted to name me Thelma after her youngest daughter, and my sister, Inez wanted to name me Louise after her best friend.  They decided to put them together and name me Thelma Louise.  My younger brother, Joe and I were youngest of the family and were naturally given the easiest jobs to do, or so they told us.  It was our duty to carry in the wood for cooking and for heating the house.  We also carried water from the spring for household needs.  The wood was cut by older brothers and sisters and was only about 100 ft from the house.  Not bad, that little chore could be accomplished in nothing flat.  But supplying the house with water was another story.  The water was in a spring down the hill, one quarter of a mile away.  That meant going down the hill with empty buckets and up the hill with full buckets.  I must confess, Joe was a much better water boy than I was. He could be watching the sky, while whistling a tune and slinging both buckets of water over his head (never spilling a drop) all the way up that hill. I'd be 20 ft behind him, dragging my buckets as though they weighed 50 lbs each, sloshing water out with every step I took.

Joe was stronger than I was, but I had a better nose for danger, he never would listen to me when I'd tell him not to do things. That was the case when in the fall of 1934, he decided to put a stick in the fireplace, catch the end on fire, and go into the little bedroom to look for Christmas presents that Mama had hid under the bed.  Mama was at the barn and I was in charge.  I was in charge all right--in charge of watching Joe do what Joe wanted to do.  He lit the stick.  My advice was, "you better not do that." He ran through the house with the burning stick.  My advice, "you better not do that." He stuck the burning stick under the bed. My advice, "you better not do that."  WHAM! the flames shot out, Joe dropped the stick and ran. I grabbed the stick and ran screaming for Mama.  She hurried to the house and carried the burning mattress outside.  Papa came home.   The bed was still smoldering in the yard, the room was a smoke mess and mama's hands and arms were burned.

Papa took Joe around behind the woodshed and gave him the same advice i'd given him.  Only Papa's advice came from the end of a burning stick set afire by his fury.