Memories of Bobbie McKenna

by Audrey McMurray

Had my sister not booted me out of my house, forcing me to take a break from little kids and housework, I would have never met Bobbie McKenna. I went to Mercer, with a brand-new baby, and saw a room full of complete strangers, tables packed with food, and plants everywhere.

I don’t actually remember seeing Bobbie during the meeting, itself. She stayed pretty quiet in crowds, and she was rather petite, so that was not suprising. No, I met Bobbie when she walked off with a rose I had gotten in the lotto – a micromini called Cinderella. I thought it was the sweetest, tiniest, most perfect rose I had ever seen. I set it down for a minute, readjusted the baby in her buggy, turned back for the rose, and it was gone.

What? These Rose Rustlers really were rustlers? Seriously?

I zoomed outside and saw this little woman, perhaps in her late 60’s and not even as tall as my shoulder, walking out with MY ROSE. I wanted to pounce but honestly, she weighed about as much as a fourth grader. I stopped her and explained that she had mistakenly picked up the rose I had chosen from the lotto and she apologized and said I had put it in the spot where the Rustlers put their extras, where everything was up for grabs. She gave it back, and even shared other goodies with me. In fact, everyone shared so much, I ended up carrying the baby in one arm and pulled the buggy filled with plants with the other.

Bobbie and I became friends over the years and that baby was followed by another, a mischievous, perpetual-motion boy that Bobbie grew fond of. I think she was mischievous too, and saw in him a kindred spirit. Bobbie may have been elderly, but she was not a quiet, prim grandmother type. For one thing, she cussed like a sailor. She spoke her mind, kids present or not. She liked for them to come fishing in the moat that almost completely surrounded the little “island” on which she grew most of her antique roses. My little boy would come with his fishing pole and favorite bucket hat, and she’d smile and say, “Here comes Jimmy in that damn hat!”. He’d look at me, waiting for someone to get in trouble, and I’d have to remind him that only Miss Bobbie got to say “damn”. He understood. He thought she was great.

Bobbie probably gave me half of all of the roses I had in my yard, either in a pot or as newly-rooted cuttings. She had some really neat roses. Her “Bobbie’s Blue Mist” was identified as Angel Wings by Ray Ponton. Her “Bobbie McKenna’s Champney’s Pink Cluster” is not the same one as is sold today and so is only available as a passalong plant. It is probably not as prolific at the regular Champney’s Pink Cluster, but it is dear to me and will never be moved from its spot. It scents my whole front porch when it’s in bloom.

Bobbie was one of those people, like Margaret Sharp and Ursula White, that could root a broomstick, and she taught her technique to anyone who asked. She was generous. She liked to seem tough on the outside but she was actually pretty sensitive. She had a temper. She spoke her mind. She didn’t trust easily, but when she decided she could trust you, she was your friend forever. She could get lonely out there on her property in Splendora. She had a house in Houston, as well, that was full of quilting material and quilts in various stages of completion. She loved her family. I didn’t know all of them but her daugher, Darla Gipps, is a very nice lady, and Bobbie loved her and her grandkids like crazy.

Bobbie’s phone calls could last awhile. I got a lot of clothes folded. But when they were over, it was sudden - no long good-byes for that one. I’ll finish with a funny conversation we had once. I can’t recall the exact numbers involved but they’ll be close.

When Bobbie was in her 70’s, she called me one day. She was furious. She said in a petulant, little-kid way,

“I’m so mad at my Daddy!” (Daddy? Bobbie still had a daddy?)

“You still have your daddy?” (I started doing some math in my head.)

“Don’t be stupid. Of COURSE I have a daddy! And he makes me so mad. He does NOT listen to me. I told him I wanted that 40’ arbor to be 12’ high and instead he made it 10’ high!” (I tried to register this but it didn’t compute.)

“Bobbie, how old is your father?”

“I don’t know! He’s in his 90’s! What does it matter?” (Ok, now I’m starting to have to hold back laughter. Hearing me laugh would have only made her angrier. But I’m mentally picturing a tiny, elderly man, balancing a 10’ cedar post on his walker, you know?)

“You have a 90-something-year-old daddy that made you a 40’ arbor? Bobbie, how did he do that?”

“Why do you keep repeating everything I say? (Now she is getting mad at me.) Yes. I. Have. A. Daddy. Who. Made. Me. An. Arbor. He. Did. It. With. His. Tractor. (I can’t help it…I burst out laughing. A male, 90-year-old version of Bobbie on a tractor putting up a 40’ arbor…in-blinkin’-credible.)

“Ok, Bobbie, let me get this straight. You have a daddy who is in his 90’s, who has built you an arbor that is 40’ long and 10’ high and you are MAD?   Are you out of your ^&*&* mind? (I can cuss too.) Don’t you think that just maybe you should thank your lucky stars you even have a daddy that can put up a 40’ anything?”

Silence. “I knew better than to come to you for sympathy!” said she, and slammed the phone down. Rotten friend that I am, every time I remember that conversation, I laugh as if it just happened. It was so Bobbie.

I miss her so much.