Convicted at Six

By Pat Alvarado

A brief memoir of growing up as a middle child in south Louisiana during the 1950s - no easy task!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Piggy Press Books
• Release date: Jul 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9789962690368

Pat Alvarado

Pat es oriunda de Abbeville, Luisiana, donde reinan los pantanos y los bayous; pero es en Panamá, el paraíso tropical, donde vive con su esposo, su gata elegante y su perrito callejero.Pat is a native of Abbeville, Louisiana, where swamps and bayous reign; but it’s in Panama, the tropical paradise, where she lives with her husband, their elegant cat and their little mutt.

Book preview

A Middle Child with no Middle Name

PATRICIA VEAZEY. I always felt that my name was ordinary. I had no middle name like everyone else. My dad said that I didn’t need a middle name – that one was enough. His name was George, plain and simple. With only one first name, he argued, I wouldn’t have to worry about remembering who I was. That was true, but; I argued back, why did everyone else have a middle name? There was George Clyde, Michael James, Barbara Jean, Frances Anne, and Paul Jude!

I felt cheated. Why only Patricia? My mom sometimes called me Patricia Louise, but that was not my name! And besides, Louise was not a name for beauties. My brothers let me know that.

But why Patricia? My dad said that St. Patrick was a good guy, a great Irishman, got rid of the snakes and all that. He even called me Patrick, which I didn’t mind, but I wasn’t born on March 17, so why Patricia? He said he thought it was a pretty name for an Irish girl.

But I’m not Irish. I’m blonde and my eyes are blue, and I don’t think there was an Irishman in the haystack – at least none that I know of. Look at my last name! It’s not O’Veazey.

Maybe it had something to do with Knute Rockne and Notre Dame. My dad went to Loyola in New Orleans in the early 40’s and there may have been some Jesuit connection with the Fighting Irish, but that’s pure speculation. He also told me that my mom wanted to name me Philomena so I shouldn’t complain!

2

Petunia, the flower not the pig!

MOMMA HAD nicknames for all of us. The boys were Chach, Jimbo and Judy Babe, and the girls were Petunia, Prunella and Penelope – in that order, the order of our gender birth. I was Petunia. Actually Penelope and Judy Babe were the last two, and six years separated them from the first group. By the time Penelope came along, we had a television set and a Victrola so they did not listen to cartoons on the radio with the rest of us.

With no TV or record player, the radio was our rainy day entertainment and connection to the outside world. Such programs as The Shadow, The Lone Ranger, and Looney Tunes molded and shaped our little minds into the paragons of intelligence that we are today. All of us would lie on the wooden floor in the glassed-in porch, weather permitting (that means it had to be raining, freezing cold or both, or else we had to play outside), and tune in to whatever program was on. Chach or Jimbo would twist the dial to line up the red bar to the station. That was usually the little boys’ job. They were older than us – the little girls – so they knew about those complicated things.

As the music would build, we entered another world – one of make believe and talking bunnies. My favorite, of course, was Looney Tunes, especially Bugs Bunny, whose practical wisdom has guided me through the trials and tribulations of grown-up hood.

It was a given that no one would speak during the programs, but on this particular day in question, my brother Jimbo broke that rule. We were listening to Porky Pig, trying to translate his mumbo jumbo accent when Petunia, his girl friend, came on. And that was it. Jimbo took the cue and from that moment on, I was Petunia the Pig!

I am not a pig! I shouted.

Petunia Pig, Petunia Pig! Jimbo mimicked.

I’m not a pig! I shouted back.

You’re a pig! You’re a pig!

Back and forth, back and forth until Momma came out of the kitchen and turned the radio off.

I cried and cried and cried. Pigs were not my thing. I did not like pigs. They smelled. They weren’t dainty. They weren’t feminine. Not that I was any of those things. I was four. It was the principle of the thing. I did not want to be a pig, pure and simple. Momma tried to console me. She said, A petunia is a flower. You’re a beautiful little petunia.

To no avail. Jimbo’s refrain taunted and haunted me throughout my childhood. To this day, I still clarify that I am Petunia, the flower not the pig!

3

Good night, my little angel!

OUR LIVES were such structured affairs. I wouldn’t go so far as to say we were forced into a size 6 shoe when we needed a size 10. But