Tara Kristin

My bicentennial baby.

Hope you like your name. You know, named after the most important character in GWTW. And Kristin. Well, it just sounded so Germanic to me and our heritage and all that. Besides I thought Kris with a "k" would make a great nickname. Not like all those plain-Jane "ch" Chrisses.

I think it takes a newborn a little time to develop their own look and personality, to kind of be their own little person even though their mamas might each think her baby is just the most unique, outstanding child ever birthed.

You yourself were a very cool little baby even at 6 weeks old, not minding as I toted you around on my hip at Harve Free's July 4th fish fry over in Lexa. He served buffalo, which I had to thoroughly clean of tiny bones before I could feed you little morsels, which I could tell you enjoyed, though like babies do, you had to wallow it around in your mouth a bit before swallowing half and spitting the other half out. Your mom was annoyed, though I can't understand why. It seems to me you enjoyed the taste of fried fish like a true Southern girl and continue to do so to this very day.

So you survived the fish fry with no problems but the Incident of the Shaken Baby was quite a close call. A few months later, your Pepaw Tolar, Red Paul and I were working at the tractor shed maybe thirty yards in front of the Old House. One of the John Deeres was running so I couldn't hear anything but caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of my eye. Your mother and Memaw Tolar were standing on the back porch shaking you. Panic was obvious in their demeanor so I ran immediately toward the house and leaped the last several feet (so it seemed) onto the porch. Snatching you from whichever one of them was holding you, I administered a sharp slap to your back and you started crying. Which was good because previously you had been making no sound but turning some scary shades of red then blue. I handed you back to your mother and walked back out to the shop.The shaking the baby to make her stop choking? I have no idea. Ask your mother.

You were the quiet one, it seems to me, not as talkative as your sisters at first. Quiet also in a sneaky way. You had the guerilla thing down, moving in the shadows (so to speak), getting into and maybe getting away with, stuff.

In a house full of talkers, you seemed to grow out of the silent phase. And your conversation became a flow of stream of consciousness which was very entertaining. One day, at the Old House and you were maybe five or six, Ozzy I think it was came on the stereo and you commented on his devil "we-shopping" tendencies. I was inspired to write a song on the spot: "We shop for the devil, how else does he buy his tennis shoes?" You found that very entertaining I remember.

Later on when I was living on Moon Lake, you met my friends Buddy Furniss and Cub, whom you promptly christened "Bug and Hug", never mentioning one without the other. Bud found that highly entertaining and remarked, "Little kids is a trip."

It is always strange I think to remember your babies as babies and little children when you experience them as adults. Maybe you have found it so. I hope you do because to remember you little guys while observing the women you've become is one of the joys of this life.

Pictures are good but the memories, so vivid, so clear are the things we cherish. I remember you, with your dutch boy(?) haircut, your mischievous smile, your sweet demeanor.

I am so glad and so proud that God has blessed you with a loving husband and kids and grandkids to gladden your heart and make you smile. Some people change as they grow older. Some need to. Not you. I still see in you that tranquil nature you had as an infant and a little child.  How proud I am of who you are and the joy you bring into the lives of your loved ones and all who know you.

I love you, Tara Kristin.

Andrea Nicole

 I selected your name with great care for the way it would sound when spoken aloud, pleasing to the ear and I think in that way you grew up in that name, bringing happiness to others, sometimes by merely being you.

I think maybe you were the reason I remember our home as peaceable, at least as far as you girls getting along. Don't get me wrong, there were squabbles (What? A houseful of females fussing?). But as these things usually go, the sibling rivalry just was not an issue as nearly as I can remember.

Again I think it had to do with your relatively laid-back personality (don't know where you got it from). Kim was the more assertive, and you were like, "Its cool." You were Zen.

Which was odd because you were not happy as a baby. Not any health problems that I recall. Maybe because until you were 1 or a little older, your mom and I argued a lot. In front of you guys, I'm ashamed to say.

Maybe after that point in your life she had resigned herself to the fact that music was going to be a important part of my life and things calmed down a bit. Ask your mother. She probably remembers it better than I do.

Such a sweet nature and I recall that even after Kris was born and you might have been jealous, you weren't. In fact one of my favorite stories concerns you two. She couldn't have been much more than two so you were probably around six or seven  and I heard your voice one day from the next room, yall's bedroom:

"Do-o-nt, Krissy do-o-nt." And again. And again. I won't be mean and call it a whine but that's what it was. It was plain to anyone listening you were being tormented in some awful way by your little sister.

Well, enough of that became enough fairly quickly, so I rose from whatever I was doing, strode into the room, swatted Kris on the behind and said, "Quit aggravatin' your sister."

And that settled it. Or so I thought. It wasn't long before I heard you sobbing. Your mama came in  and related the following conversation:

Mom: What's wrong with you, Niki?
Nik (in the midst of packing): I'm running away from home.
Mom: What? Why?
Niki (renewed sobbing): Daddy was mean to Krissy.

Never did find out what Kris was doing to you. Maybe she remembers.

I think Pepaw Tolar pulled all yall's front baby teeth. The two in front, that leave a cute gap in a little girl's smile until the adult ones come in. As nearly as I can recall, you were terrified of having them pulled even though they seemed about to fall out by themselves. He called you over to himself saying, "Let Papaw see, baby." And you dutifully opened your mouth and Pepaw grasped the tooth between his thumb and forefinger and wiggled it experimentally while talking to you about this, that or the other thing. Next thing you know, he showed it to you having pulled it out while he was talking. Gotta say, I was jealous, He always tied a string around mine which wasn't nearly so relaxing. Got his technique down over the years, I suppose.

There's a picture somewhere, your mom may have it, that I took of you when you were maybe five(?) or maybe a little younger. You were just getting over chicken pox so you had stayed home from church that Sunday. You guys and your mom always went to LBC every Sunday with your Memaw and Pepaw.  I was sitting in my recliner, watching the pre-game show I think and I can't remember how the conversation started but that it was about nothing in particular, just a girl hanging out with her daddy. I remember your face, with one or two remaining scars from the chicken pox but your mouth mostly and how the expression of your face was just like that of your mama's when she and I first met and you talked, like she had done, about mostly nothing and your hair was wispy and blonde and you had on this little maroon turtleneck that was one of your favorites and somehow the camera was nearby and I snapped a shot of you as you talked, a polaroid which is probably all faded by now which is a shame because I would give anything to look at it and see if it matches the memory I have of you that day just talking and hanging out.

The last time I remember talking and hanging out with you was in your Memaw Tolar's carport. You were a grown woman then with your own family and the feeling of kinship that we feel with those nearest and most dear to us is the thing I recall of that time. That and a sense of peace between us which I hope was as real to you as it was to me.

You know, some might look at your life and say, "What a shame. She never had a chance to be all she might have been."

They are wrong. You were exactly what the Lord your God made you to be. You were a sweet and loving sister and daughter, a faithful, supportive wife and a kind and gentle mother to your curly-haired little girl. You carried your smile wherever you went, even on days when you might not have felt like smiling, and brightened people's hearts with it.

There is a verse of Scripture I think of, which comforts me greatly: "The righteous perish...the faithful are taken away, and no one understands that the righteous are taken away to be spared from evil."

I hope to see you one day, blue-eyed little girl, resting in the arms of Jesus.

I love you, Andrea Nicole.

Kimberly Ann

Your mom picked your name. It is odd to me that people are rarely called by the names they were born with, but some variation (Kim) or even a nickname picked up in childhood (Kimbo, and please don't hate me).


I mention this because Kimberly Ann was a very popular name the year you were born. And perhaps the year before and the year after. No movie stars of that name (I do remember a couple of "Kims") so maybe it was a character on a popular soap opera.

Anyway I accused your mother of having no imagination and she was suitably annoyed and may have even suggested that I name the next child. Or maybe I insisted that I be allowed to do so. You should ask your mother.

I digress. You wondered about "our" story and this is part of that, leading up to the main event, as it were.

You were the first grandchild on either side and heavily doted upon. In fact, and you must hide this from the other girls, you were definitely Memaw Tolar's favorite.

Not sure about your Pepaw, cuz he was so good at not showing such prejudice toward one or the other child. I'm sure he favored you though since he loved the underdog (being one himself) and whose heart would not go out to a little girl who had me and your mama for parents!

You have told many great stories about your childhood. See, the insanely competitive Tolar gene gets all the notice, being so spectacular in action, but there is the storyteller gene as well. Pepaw Tolar had it. Aunt Deb has it. You have it.

It's the ability to relate an event "with advantages" (as  Shakespeare would have it).

But here's one you may not remember.

We had just gotten the 4430 and I was disking with it behind the house. Your mom brought you out and indicated you wanted to ride on the tractor. She lifted you up and I pulled you onto the seat between my legs, the big steering wheel practically in your lap.
In fact you placed your little hands on the wheel and helped me drive as we made a round and pointed back toward the house. There was still a barbed wire fence there from the days when the field had been a cow pasture. You didn't know it but with a brake on each wheel the John Deere would literally turn in its own tracks. So I rolled up to the fence and spun the wheel, jammed on the right brake, raised the power lift then lowered it again, all while not even grazing the fence. In fact the only distraction I suffered was when you grabbed my leg in a death grip, apparently convinced that we were not only about to crash through the fence but on through the house as well. I think I still have the scar.

It was cool taking you guys to a restaurant when you were little (I especially remember Pancho's) because you were so well-behaved and people always commented on it and your mom and I would get all swelled up because we were doing such an awesome job raising yall.

About that. I think I gave you a piece of paper quite a while back folded into a booklet telling your mom how much you loved her. Except when she made you mad. Then you made a list of the things you didn't love about how she oppressed you. And this is the strange part: somewhere in the midst of this you called Niki a "dumb ace". Or maybe that was in a different writing of yours. You should ask your mother. I only remembered being appalled at such language from my little girl and to this day, I cannot imagine where you might have learned it.

Finally, on to "The Two Mrs. Williams (es?)". Mrs. Williams (or maybe it was "Miss") was your math teacher in perhaps the third grade(?). And no doubt, being fresh out of teacher's college (they used to have those), she was anxious about teaching her first group of students and maybe even a little overwhelmed at interacting with white children for maybe the first time in her life. Such were the times we lived in. One of her first acts was to send you home with an "F" paper. Your parents were upset. This parent was even more upset when I checked your work and found that you had not given any wrong answers at all! Well maybe one. Or two. Still an "A" paper. Looking back, I can only think that stress fuddled her thinking and she confused addition with subtraction. Or something.Your mom declined to go and discuss the problem with the teacher so it fell to this redneck to go and parley with this woman who had mistreated my child. I wore my sternest visage as I pointed out her grading errors in soft, low tones that nonetheless expressed the desire to not see this error repeated.

You know the thing I really remember about this was Mrs. Williams eyes and how wide they were as we spoke. After all, she was black and I was white and we were in the South and all that implied at the time. Looking back. I'm glad I wasn't mean but I'm gladder that Mrs. Williams is/has been a valued colleague of yours.

It makes me proud of who that little girl has become, all that she has accomplished professionally, but even more than that become the matriarch (again please forgive me, but it IS true) of this clan you so love and faithfully nurture.

Way to go, you.

I love you, Kimberly Ann.

If I Loved You

“I’m pregnant.”

Of course, I already knew this. She had told Jobie and he had told me. Still, not the kind of news a single man wants to hear from a woman he knows only casually and is not even sure he likes.

I wasn’t really in the market for a family. I had thrown away a perfectly good one. Musicians are notoriously unreliable husbands and dads.

“So what do you want to do?”

“I’m going to have the baby.” She said this defensively, as if expecting me to pressure her to have an abortion. Actually the thought had not occurred to me. To my shame, I must admit I would have been open to the suggestion had she made it.

“And you’re sure it’s mine (once more, to my shame)?”

“I haven’t been with anybody but you.” She was still defensive and a little upset at the implication of my question. I didn’t press it.

She was young, 23, when we first met, kinda skinny but with a cute butt. I usually tired of women quickly but there was an innocence about her that had nothing to do with age or experience. I found this attractive somehow. Not what you ordinarily see in the nightclubs.

So I said, “Okay, we’ll see,” and she kept coming around all summer to the Old House, the converted shotgun house where I had spent most of my childhood and where I was living my bachelor’s existence.

She brought herself, when she came and whatever party goods she could lay her hands on. The price of admission, I guess you’d say.

As I mentioned, I had some hard experiences with women, most of them of my own making, and really didn’t care to have one around on a steady basis. Plus, she was pretty messed up the first time we met and it later came out she was a junkie.

I quit seeing her for a bit but she was quite persistent and I wasn’t seeing anyone else at the time. Or looking for anyone else.

So she would show up at the Old House two or three times a week, always calling ahead, although I could hear the ’63 Mercury she drove squeaking and rattling from a mile away. My brother and me and our friends would party at the Old House and she would show up. Everybody began to know her name and talk to her, especially the girls. It was taken for granted that the baby growing in her belly was mine.

By early autumn the band was playing again at a couple of clubs. She came to hear us play and sat at the band table. She and Alma, the guitar player’s wife and our keyboardist, became as thick as thieves. She was swelled way out there by then. Wayne, the club owner, would always joke when he saw her that he would probably be the one to deliver the baby, there in the club.

The baby arrived in January. Her sister called me that afternoon and asked if I would like to travel to Memphis to see my new daughter. Amazing, isn't it, how a newborn child with her tiny squished-up face can so closely resemble the family from which she comes. Sandy was the the spitting image of my dad with his round face and chubby cheeks.

Amazing as well, how one accustomed to and desiring a solitary existence can begin to desire something more.

Motels became part of our weekend existence for the next several months as the Old House in winter was not a good place to keep an infant. And we were a family on those weekends; mom, dad and baby in her dresser-drawer bassinet.

In June the confirmed bachelor became a family man when I moved Joyce and Sandy in with me.

We made it official in November of '88, mom and dad becoming wife and husband. And so we remained until one night almost thirty years to the night we met, she died in her sleep.

It strikes me, as I reflect on it, how some seem born with kind and loving hearts while others of us must be taught to reach outside ourselves, to love. What a sweet, beautiful lesson it is to be so taught. What a mercy is such a blessing to one so undeserving.

And I would say that, other than my salvation, it is the greatest kindness my Lord and God has extended to me.

And so Joyce Wanda Tolar, if you were here I would kiss you and wish you happy anniversary. That not being possible, I'll have to wait on that kiss and say, “See you soon.”