HOO-RAY for Mimi!I'm here to say a few words for Mimi's grandchildren.
I would argue—because I'm a Court, and we like to argue—that Mimi's view of childhood was like Mark Twain's: There should be a sense of adventure. Kids should be creatively self-reliant. Skinned knees and bruises are good signs. Those were her values.
She instilled them in seven children—and no one would have blamed her if she stopped there. Called it a career. But she didn't. She volunteered for another tour of duty, and my cousins and I are grateful. Mimi was like a troupe leader for a rag-tag band of us in the 70s, 80s, and into the 90s. The first wave of grandchildren included Larry's, Joe's, Ken's, and some of Sally's kids. Another wave included more of Sally's, followed by Tony's and Bill's. We also had good friends like Jenny and John Stisted. So there was never a dull moment.
Tennis came first, of course. That was Mimi's great obsession. She didn't care how good we were. She just wanted us to play the game.
Then we would swim. Friends and neighbors with pools were used to seeing Mimi with a pickup truck full of kids on hot August afternoons. Her white head would peer over the steering wheel like she was doing chin-ups. And we would hang over the rails in the back like dogs. We'd plunge in as a pack, thrash around for a while, and then leave the way we came. On the way home, we'd see whose wet hair stood up straightest in the wind. As I recall, there may have been extra points for those with the fewest bugs in their teeth at the end of the ride.
Mimi approved of that kind of carefree behavior. She encouraged kids to be kids—and if they didn't know how, she taught them. Those of us who later went to boarding school were well prepared, I think, because Mimi also had a gentle way of toughening us. She helped us develop slightly thicker skins than we started with. She'd say "buck up" and "stop whining" when we were weeding rows of strawberries, or when grass needed cutting. She reminded us that no one likes a tattletale.
It occurs to me now she could have been a champion breeder, because she had a canny way of training us. She used a simple system of positive and negative responses. Her standard negative response was a crinkle-nosed frown that dripped with disapproval. She'd shoot that look whenever you suggested something like watching television on a rainy day. The very thought of it would make her face would squint up as if she'd bitten a lemon. She would steer you to a board game, instead—or a book about sailing ships on the high seas. Her contempt for television was emblematic of her more general disdain for idleness. She wanted us outside—on the tennis court, or in the orchard. And if we couldn't find anything to do, she'd give us a job.
For positive reinforcement—when you were doing something worthwhile—she would give you a cheer: "HOO-RAY!" We'd get that cheer after a good dive, a bold croquet shot, or a successfully netted crab. "HOO-RAY!"
She used other behavior-modification tricks, too, of course—like the good-cop, bad-cop routine she played with Captain. Who among us hasn't quivered at the thought of a sausage meat machine? Remember: It was Mimi who threatened it more than Captain. She did it all with a twinkle in her eye, though. We knew to laugh.
We also knew—even then, I think—that we were lucky. Other kids had summer camps. But not like ours.
So: HOO-RAY for Mimi!
—Randolph Harrison Court, 12 March 2005
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