Trade last!

There's an old tradition in our family, one Mama elevated to art form, called the trade last. Those who were at her funeral heard the preacher reference this custom, but for the uninformed, here's how it works.

You hear something nice about me, so you call me and say, "Trade last!"

In order for me to hear the accolade I must first tell you something lovely I've heard about you. You Trade Last, you see.

It is always a devilment to be on the receiving end of one of these, because the universe seldom conspires that we each should hear something nice about the other in a convenient time frame, so one is often left wanting for something with which to trade first.  


Of course, Mama had a way of making it always work out for her: if she hadn't actually heard anything complimentary, she'd say "Tidge says....."  followed by whatever bit of puffery she could make up in order to extract your tidbit.  (It must be said here that she didn't always use "Tidge," but that's the phantom friend I heard from most often.)

But, oh, what a wonderful thing it was to know that someone might have said something kind when you weren't around to hear it! Trade lasts, on a much more meaningful level, meant that we never held back on sharing compliments or praise we'd heard about one another. Knowing how delighted Mama would be to hear something nice about us created an environment in which we strove to be the best we could at something, because we knew it would get reported back. She had more fun giving a trade last than getting a trade first.

**

I frequently give book chats to literary groups. I can't say I'm the world's most polished public speaker, but I do think I get folks to laugh pretty well sometimes, and that makes me happy. As it happens, there is almost always somebody in one of these groups who would call Mama shortly afterwards, and dole out some praise.

I know this, because without fail, I could always count on the phone ringing around suppertime after one of these chats, and hearing her say, "Trade last!"


This afternoon, three weeks to the day after her death, I spoke to the Jr. 20th Century Literary Club. I got 'em laughing a few times, and some of the women had awfully nice things to say. I know at least four of them who might have gone home and picked up the phone to call Mama to report on how I did. I think I did okay, and I think someone might have been complimentary.

But the phone won't ring tonight.

The only cries of "Trade last!" I'm likely to hear again in my lifetime will be the ones I spring on my sons (who hate the game as much as I did when I was their age), and on my granddaughter.

I hope Tidge is out there, ready to help them out when they hear it.