Early memories are pretty much confined to two things: Train rides and spending time on my grandparents’ farm in South Arkansas. Daddy was going to pharmacy school in St. Louis on the G.I. bill and Mom was spending time going back and forth: Forth to St. Louis when Daddy saved up the money for train tickets; back to Arkansas when all he had left was train fare for Momma and me to take the Missouri-Pacific train back to Hope.
I don’t have many dysfunctional thoughts about Sutton. It was the perfect place for a hyperactive youngster to spend time during the formative years. My grandparents – George Logan Andres Sr., and Mattie Bright Hamilton Andres – were tolerant to a fault.
The Andres household – a shotgun affair with modular rooms built here and there – had eight full-time residents: Nanny and Daddy George, Daddy George’s older brother Francis Marion, and five at-home children. Momma’s two younger sisters, two younger brothers, and an older sister were still bedding down at the six-room house. That total didn’t include me and Momma, who were part-time residents.
There were beds in every single room except the kitchen and the outhouse, which was ... well, out.
It was like a commune only the food was better.
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