Mary Louise Hollis Todd

We may be small in number, but not at all in spirit. Yesterday, a few of us gathered at Aunt Mary’s place on the west side of Houston. Patsy was just 18 when she came to Houston from her native Santa Fe to marry our cousin Donald. He had grown from young teenager to young man in the Land of Enchantment, and they had come to Texas—a return to his roots—to start their life together. That was 1957. Donald is the oldest of our generation of Hollises, the same generation that led Patsy to comment to me yesterday, “It’s hard to believe that we’re the next generation who will die.” But there it is, clearly distinguishable on our faces. We’re an older bunch, children of the 1930s and 40s.

Aunt Mary, the reason we few had assembled, flowers and food in hand, turned 91 on her last birthday, the only surviving member of her own generation. She doesn’t remember so much any more, but the spring in her feet is still lively, though tottery at times, as she demonstrated yesterday when we were getting ready to leave. In the course of a few hours, she had asked each of us more than once, “Now who are you?” Sitting next to Patsy on the sofa, she beamed at me, “I’m Mary Louise Hollis Todd.”

As we sat and stood around the table, letting the hearty lunch made by sister Sue’s capable hands—we all get our cooking ways from our East Texas paternal grandmother—we wandered into reminiscing, laughing and sighing over times shared. Joan, our oldest sister, remembered a trip to the beach with Donald, his brothers Jimmy and Byron, and Sue and me from our branch, part of a herd of Hollises on an outing. She recalled that before we left Houston, Uncle Pat said I’m going to spank you three boys now because I know you’re going to misbehave before we get to Galveston. Donald laughed, although he didn’t remember the incident, and his daddy wasn’t known for administering that kind of justice, especially in advance of any crime, even though he raised his three sons during an era when “spare the rod and spoil the child” was primer to raising kids. “He that spareth the rodde, hateth his sonne," claims a 16th century translation of Proverbs. The origin of the saying has even earlier roots. “Did you ever spank your kids,” I asked Donald and Patsy. We all smiled and nodded. What we remember most from our generation was being loved and lots of laughter, especially at Hollis gatherings.

Hollis outings instigated by our parents remained a popular pastime into my young adulthood. At that time, all of the Hollis siblings owned houses on the Texas coast, even Uncle Pat and Aunt Martha, who had lived in New Mexico for 20 years at this point. Russell, Ray, Mary and Frances (Aunt Sister) were regulars on Caranchua Bay, and visits by the New Mexico family were always a special treat. It was following one of those gatherings at the bay that I flew back to Santa Fe in Uncle Pat’s plane, Aunt Martha and her toy poodle tucked in the back seat. And it was on that trip I recalled our family’s visit to Santa Fe of the 1950s, and I knew again that I wanted to live there some day. In a sense, Donald and I have traded, although his part of the swap is already more than a half-century old, and Santa Fe is a very different place. Just ask those who grew up there when it was a sleepy town, with lots more dirt streets than you can find today.

“We used to go to Santa Fe,” Aunt Mary recalled, although she didn’t add any details. It was a recollection that spurred her imagination as she mostly listened to her nieces and nephews. Our Mamaw Hollis visited Uncle Pat’s family regularly during the 40s and 50s, sometimes riding the train. I’ve forgotten the particulars of any trip Aunt Mary made in her traveling days. Maybe her last visit was for her nephew Jimmy’s funeral in the early 90s. He died too young.

Cousin Becky, the youngest of our generation, grew up an only child. She’s always loved family gatherings. At a funeral several years ago she exclaimed, “I just love funerals!” adding for propriety’s sake that she really meant to say she loves those opportunities to see her kinfolks. Becky is Hollis through and through, hugging and kissing, and laughing her trademark laugh, full of generosity. After lunch yesterday, her hands were in the sink, doing her part for the celebration.

We gathered in the backyard for photographs and instant replay, thanks to digital technology. Aunt Mary wasn’t giving up too many smiles, as she tried to sort through all of the bustle, but laughter pealed from her when I said, “Horseshit!” “Sounds just like Aunt Frances,” Joanie reacted. It was a balmy, sunny, pre-spring day in west Houston, in the backyard of the house on two-plus acres that Aunt Mary and Uncle Frog built in the early 1960s. It’s the home that she won’t agree to leave, on land that used to be country, now surrounded by houses and townhomes. She can’t live alone, and Cousin Donald sees to it that she is safe and comfortable, a luxury assured by the financially conservative ways that dictated how Mary and Frog, children of the depression, lived their lives.

For those cousins gathered yesterday, celebrating around their Aunt Mary, we were reminded that we prosper because of where we come from. It’s not about money, although only a fool wouldn’t acknowledge that money sure does help. What was evident around the table of Mary Louise Hollis Todd, over Sue’s chocolate cake—the cake we’ve long referred to as Anna Mae Sowell’s chocolate cake—was the wonderful connection we continue to have, even though we see each other rarely. As we stood in the backyard taking pictures, I asked Becky to stand for one of just her and Aunt Mary. As Becky took Aunt Mary’s hand, she commented on the dark blue veins so prominent just under the tissue-thin skin. I noticed Aunt Mary’s long, graceful fingers and thought about the precious blood coursing strong still through our aunt, Hollis blood in body and spirit that all those gathered share.

Mary Louise Hollis Todd—Normangee Texas (March 19, 2009)
R. Harold Hollis