Robbie Mae Ballard Winter

Robbie Mae Ballard Winter, 96, passed away on Saturday, December 26, 2020 in Arlington, Texas.

She was born April 14, 1924 in Tyrone, Oklahoma to Fred and Katie Mann Ballard.

A day after Mom passed away, my three sisters and I got together to divvy up funeral responsibilities. For some unfathomable reason, they trusted me with her personal obituary. My sisters know I tend to be flippant and, at times, irreverent. But I also knew that Mom would disapprove of such a tone, so much so that she might return from the afterlife to scold me.

Not that Mom lacked a sense of humor, but she would sometimes get put out with my particular brand of “wit.” And even as a grown man, I was afraid to cross the line (though sometimes I would and turned back to a grade-school boy when she burned me with “The Look”).  So I will do my best to keep this obituary respectful, but I have to throw in a little humor because Mom wasn’t the somber type. I think she would expect a little lightness in the middle of our grief.

Our mother grew up in hardscrabble Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl days, but she fondly reminisced about her childhood. A wheat and cattle farmer, Grandpa Ballard always provided fresh food, and Grandma would cook it up in that home style that only a grandmother can. Mom was the oldest of four children, and there was a big extended family of outgoing aunts and uncles nearby. When they visited, the kids would huddle under the big farm tables and delight to the raucous laughter and good conversation of the grown-ups.

When she left home, Mom attended Oklahoma Baptist University in Shawnee, and then earned her nursing degree at Baylor in Dallas. Somewhere in all of that, she met a dashing Army Air Corps officer named Bill who would later marry her and contribute to the cause of making three daughters and one son (that would be me).

There was a reason Dad was attracted to Mom. She was smart and charming, and it didn’t hurt that she was a knockout. In certain old pictures, she looked ethnic with her shining dark hair, deep-brown eyes and a smile that rivaled the sun, which she kept through her golden years. I learned from one of my sisters that Grandpa called her “my little Indian princess.” I guess because of that, she always thought Native American blood ran in her veins. Imagine her surprise when she got the results of a DNA test a few years ago, and her ancestry was 98% British with a little French and German thrown in. So much for being a descendant of Pocahontas.

Despite her good looks, Mom was no delicate flower. She was a darn good athlete, playing basketball in high school and later becoming a league bowler and slalom water skier. She loved getting out in the backyard with us to play croquet, badminton and washers, too.

We all remember Mom’s good taste. She dressed well, loved theater and music, and sparkled as a hostess. She could cook, bake a mean pound cake, and churned out yummy cookies and candies during the holidays. We loved most of her dishes, though one of my sisters confessed she didn’t care for her salmon patties and I always groaned when she served ham a la king, because I thought it looked like barf. Guess what? It was the 60s. You ate it, anyway, because your folks made you.

Mom just had this wonderful knack of turning a house into a home. We pulled up roots a lot in the ‘70s, but she could transform anyplace we ended up – from apartments to old houses – into somewhere you wanted to return to after a long day. Much to Dad’s annoyance, Mom went through an antique phase for a long spell. Dad didn’t like being surrounded by flat irons and seed bins that doubled as knickknack tables because, in his words, “I grew up with all that old ***. I want new stuff.”

But Mom kept it and made it work.

Our mother coupled her outward style with openness and hospitality. She could sit down with anyone and draw them out in conversation. The houses we lived in were warm, busy places, largely due to the way Mom attracted people and welcomed our own friends. She and Dad hosted dinners, card parties, class dances and youth group afterglows.

I would be remiss if I left out Mom’s faith.  She grew up in a small Baptist church, carrying the spiritual lessons she learned there through her entire life. Though small in stature, she was mighty in spirit – never wearing religiosity as a badge of pride, but serious about serving others and giving to charity. Mom not only took us to church; she demonstrated what the church was about. I’ll never forget the time when I was 12 or 13, watching a sci-fi movie, and she marched in and said, “Turn off your show. We’re going to go help someone.” I told her I didn’t want to which, remarkably, cut no ice with her. She said there was a less-fortunate family in our church who needed their house cleaned and laundry done and we were going to do that very thing. End of story. I’m glad she made me do that because (1) she set an example of faith and service that we all live out to this day and (2) I went back and watched the movie as an adult and it wasn’t very good.

Mom wasn’t perfect, but she was a good mother, sister, friend and grandmother. She loved her big family so much, supporting us all in our various endeavors. In the last phase of her life, she cherished the title of “G.G.” (Great-Grandmother) and was delighted when she learned that a great-grandson was due next summer. We are going to miss everything about her.

Except, maybe, her ham a la king.

In lieu of flowers the family ask to please donate to the Salvation Army.

Private Graveside services will be held at Squaw Creek Cemetery in Glen Rose, Texas under the direction of Wiley Funeral Home of Granbury.

Written by Mark Winter on behalf of his sisters Carol Winter, Suzanne Carpenter and Liz Pinnell.