I had intended to start a series on Texas women with this post. My plan was to start with Panchita Alavez and work my way through several interesting women—many of them were not exactly ladies—involved in the history of this great state. The sudden death of my sister changed my plan. I will start the series with a bit about her and continue later with more well-known people.
My sister was four years younger than I, so I knew her all her life. I watched her grow up—she was Carol Ann then—we all change identities as we grow older, and she was no exception. She was a slender girl, a bit of a tomboy with dark hair, freckles, and brown eyes. Carol Ann was vivacious and quick to laugh. She was the baby of the family and grew up in the shadow of two over-protective brothers.
By the time Carol Ann entered high school there wasn’t a lot of tomboy left. She’d become a beautiful young lady, with a tiny waist and lovely curves. My brother Jerry and I knew she needed a lot more protection than she wanted. Carol Ann was strong-willed, stubborn, and determined to do things her way, which gave us even more reason to “protect” her. We managed to survive that time, and, while in college, she brought home a young fellow from Central Texas named Mel Hardin. Jerry and I were pleased. Mel was more nearly acceptable than most of the other dudes she’d gone out with.
I don’t remember most calendar dates, but I can tell you where I was on April 2, 1961. I was at Mountain Home, Texas, watching Mel and Carol Ann become Mr. and Mrs. Hardin. After that, I didn’t get to see my sister as often as I would have liked. She had become Carol Hardin, young housewife.
A year or so later, Jerry and I drove down to visit our little sister. She and Mel lived in a tiny house on Elm Pass Road, near Bandera. Mel worked on a dairy farm, getting up and milking cows at 3:00 AM every day and Carol Ann, eight months pregnant, fixed his breakfast. I remember her shortness of breath as she worked around that gigantic stomach, bending over to take biscuits out of the oven. What had become of my curvaceous little sister?
Not long after the baby was born, Mel surrendered to preach and he and his little family started a series of moves. He went from church to church and school to school. Pastor Mel continued his education as they moved and Carol had two more babies. During the next several years, they moved all over Texas; Three Rivers, Woodsboro, Blooming Grove, Canyon, Dalhart, and finally Roswell, New Mexico. Our visits became less frequent when they moved to California, but we loved them no less and kept in touch.
Carol had now become Carol Hardin, pastor’s wife, doing the things expected of someone in her position. She cooked for various affairs of the church, helped with Sunday school and the nursery, and generally did whatever needed doing to help Mel with his ministry and his schooling. As time passed, she developed the idenity that would become known as “Hardy” to her friends, her pupils and her grandchildren. Hardy was a cross between a mother hen and a drill instructor. It was a routine matter for her to plan, organize, and cook a meal for a hundred people.
I got to know Hardy when she and Dr. Hardin returned to the Hill Country. Her children have children of their own, and she and Mel moved here to be near them and to slow down and enjoy life. Hardy continued her life-long role, supporting her husband. She nurtured her children and grandchildren, entertained deacons, cooked meals that would make a chef jealous, and lived as she always had, in the center of her kitchen, her family, and her church. Last year, in April, we went back to that little chapel in Mountain Home to celebrate Carol and Mel’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.
For other people, she has been Carol Ann, and Carol Hardin, and Hardy, and wife, and mother, and aunt, and teacher. For me, she was not any of those people. She will always be my little sister—the baby of the family.
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