My Aunt Mary Jo and the Halbrooks boys

As a child, one of my favorite places was Christmas at Pop and Honey’s house. As an adult, one of my father’s most hated places was Christmas at Pop and Honey’s house. You see, my grandparents’ house at Christmas was everything our house never was: loud, raucous, and noisy. And the main source of that chaos was the Halbrooks boys.

My brothers were nine and ten years older than me and by the time I have vivid memories of the holidays, they were mostly on their own. As a result, our house was always quiet. It was just me and my parents – and my Dad was averse to noise. He even had to go outside to the barn when I practiced the piano. I often wondered if it was because the coal mine where he worked was so loud – the mammoth shovel he operated, the huge trucks that transported the coal. I never got upset with him – it was just the way it was in our house.

There are three Halbrooks boys: Doug, a year older than me; John, a couple of years younger; and Bobby, the baby as we called him. They grew up in Montgomery, Ala. and still live in the state; all three are huge Auburn fans, and as boys their favorite thing was trying to kill each other.  After seeing WWE wrestling years later, I finally had something to compare to Christmas with the oversized Halbrooks boys. I LOVED every minute of it.

My grandparents’ wood-frame house would literally shake at its foundations as Doug, John and Bobby tackled each other, placed neck holds, and threw each other to the floor. More often than not, their Dad – a Baptist preacher – would join in as well.  I watched in fascination as they’d throw each other around the living room or on that rare occasion when they’d be in Kentucky for the annual Auburn/Alabama football game and they’d spend three hours yelling and throwing things at the television.

The boys lost their Mom yesterday – my Aunt Mary Jo. She was the baby of my Mom's family – born in 1933 during the heart of the depression, toddling along after her siblings: George, Celia and my Mom.  She went to nursing school in Louisville where she met Ralph Halbrooks – and after marrying, they moved to Alabama where he worked for the Alabama Baptist Convention.

Mary Jo was the last of my Mom’s siblings and their spouses. Just this past year, we also lost Uncle George’s wife, Naomi. It’s a sad and empty feeling to think this generation on my Mom’s side is gone. I remember Aunt Mary Jo – of course – after she had lived for many years in Alabama and, oh my, was she Southern.  She could draw out any short word into multiple syllables. She was a follower of Dr. Spock and didn’t believe much in paddling (maybe not an altogether good thing with three rambunctious boys) – and frankly, she never saw much of anything that Doug, John and Bobby did wrong. For her, the noise was a normal, everyday occurrence.

At Christmas, my grandparents would have a huge cedar tree that they’d cut down on their farm up in the country. It would be decorated with these wonderful bubbling lights that I always wanted (I found some after Larry and I married, but they were a cheap, plastic knock-off of Honey’s beautiful glass lights), antique frosted ornaments, and strands and strands of silver ice cycles. There would be piles and piles of presents – not expensive gifts mind you, because none of our family had a lot of money – but everyone would have something under the tree. We’d all tear into the gifts at once – and then we’d go around and see what others received. That was usually the point at which my Daddy was ready to go.  I’d beg and beg to be able to stay – and most of the time, Mommy would agree to come back and get me later in the evening.

That’s when the next phase of fun would begin. After everything was cleared, a game of full-contact Rook would ensue around Honey’s kitchen table. Popcorn would be popped, Cokes opened, root beer floats made. These hours-long games of Rook would go into the wee hours of the morning – and you can’t imagine how hugely competitive these guys were. Aunts, uncles, cousins, everyone would wait to get into the games – only when you’d get tired, would you hand over your seat to someone waiting. The family played Rook like the aforementioned wrestling – I preferred to watch.

I last saw Aunt Mary Jo last July when she made Doug, John and Bobby drive her to Kentucky for Mommy’s funeral. Even though she wasn’t in great health either, she wanted to be there for her big sister, Doooorrriss. It was special to see her and the boys, share a breakfast at Cracker Barrel, and reminisce about those Christmas vacations at Pop and Honey’s. Larry and the girls finally got to meet them and remarked after the funeral how much they’d enjoyed talking with them and how interested they were in the girls’ public service work.

It’s a sad day today. While I’ll remember in my mind how Aunt Mary Jo looked last July as she gazed at my Mom’s picture on the alter in the sanctuary of the Beaver Dam Baptist Church, I’ll mostly hear her wonderfully old-South voice whispering in my ear . . .calling me “Quenta Aaaannn.”