Building a vacation/retirement house in the small community of Sutton, Arkansas, has been a very rewarding experience for me and my family. To many of us, the land we all walked as kids is sacred ground. I've never felt closer to Sutton, Daddy George, Nannie, Uncle, Worth, Martha ... and all of my relatives ... that I have in the past eight months or so.
One of my favorite songs is "Paradise," a song about a special place that has been ruined by civilization and progress. Not Sutton. It was special when my cousin Gary and I were building unfloatable rafts on the pond, when Jackie and an unnamed cousin peed on cousins Betsy and Baby Ann from the magnolia tree, when sister Andi Dale was called T-Ninesy, when we played baseball in CarnaLee Garrett's field, when we all -- at one time or another -- followed our grandfather Daddy George to the Sand Field or Duncan Field and walked every inch of fence line.
Special memories include watching our grandmother Nannie water her flowers from a pail in her little print dresses and Uncle France spending all morning get dressed up for homecoming. Everyone cousin of the Andres Clan can still see Aunt Martha sitting on the floor, making her books, and Uncle Worth talking cars till we all could just throw up.
It is still a special place today.
This little ditty is not supposed to be anything special ... just a little walk in the past to help me keep fresh in my mind the images that linger still. I know it helped make all Andres kin the folks we grew up to be.
Written as a song to tune of Paradise, a song written and recorded by John Prine and also recorded by Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakam, John Denver, Tom T. Hall, Everly Brothers, John Fogerty, Jackie DeShannon
Chorus
Cousins, won’t you go down to the home place
With Daddy George and Nannie, we walked the woods
Where we all grew up, loving our history
And the lessons they taught us did us much good.
There’s the old pond where Uncle France took us
Where we learned how to spit, fish, whittle and cuss
We’d come home wet covered with chiggers
And our mommas would gather and raise such a fuss
See the magnolia where we all learned to climb
And we all put our initials way up at the top.
And Butch and Jackie peed on girl cousins
We can still hear them all beggin’ us to stop
Uncle was swingin’ and Martha was fussin’
About cigarette smoke getting in her eyes,
Daddy George was sittin’ on front porch
Teachin’ his grandsons how to catch flies.
Uncle was sittin’ and pitchin’ big washers
And teaching dog Penny how to catch snuff
Nieces and nephews told him to stop it
And all the young ones couldn’t see it enough
Worth was a-hollerin’ to give him a big hug,
Thompson Boys wanted supper on Sunday night.
Nobody liked ‘em, but Nannie still fed ‘em
‘cause their mama had once treated her right.
And, Cousins, won’t you go on down to the home place
With Daddy George and Nannie, we walked the woods
Where we all grew up, loving our history
And the lessons they taught us did us some good.
On Sundays we marched to the Nazarene Church
In a big long line like a herd of wild ducks,
Squirming and fidgeting all during the sermon
Then headed back home for Sunday pot luck.
Smitty and Martha would eat green hot peppers
‘Til Smitty cried “Uncle” and Martha would grin,
Worth shoveled peas in his mouth with a shovel
And emptied his plate and start fillin’ it again.
Wild cousins would scuffle out in the front yard
While daddys and uncles egged them on,
Martha made books sittin’ cross-legged,
Worth tinkered with his car under the hot sun.
Chorus
We’d walk Memory Lane to go see the peddler,
We’d walk it again to pick up the paper and mail,
We’d visit Lambert’s store to get us a soda,
The smell of the outhouse sticks with us still.
Suuukkk, Cow! You could hear Daddy George holler
When time came to check on the small herd,
The grandkids would try and mock his loud call
The cows all ignored us, never hearing a word.
Cousins, you know we can walk with them still,
Go down to Sutton, walk hallowed ground
You can conjure up your own special memories
They’re all right there just waitin’ to be found.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Thursday, July 21, 2011
The education system is broken. So, are we going to fix it?
Before I go off on a patented rant, let me say this: I love teachers, even married one. I think teachers should be paid a minimum of $70,000 a year because of their commitment and dedication to our children.
That said, education in general in this country is, on the International Education Suckability Scale, a rousing, romping 1.2 on a 10-point scale.
While I have an opinion and know how to use it, I also have credentials that give me the right to power-punch the existing education system and all of its auxiliary ills. I have a teacher’s degree and have taught at the high school, community college and university level.
That doesn’t qualify me for squat. What does is the fact that I have four children who were educated in high schools in Texas and Arkansas, to some degree; the oldest two have advanced degrees and are professionals of note.The youngest daughter is a college graduate and the youngest son is exploring the world before he tackles higher education. All four are outstanding and will succeed in life.
Part of the credit for the success of the oldest two goes to certain teachers, and certainly to former Superintendent Pat Smith, an old school (pun intended) administrator who demanded the absolute best from her staff and from the students under her care. But, honestly, the teachers got a lot of help from home. Both parents set rules about educational expectations, made sure the kids knew the rules and the consequences for failure to do their best.
And, tough love was administered when applicable … both at home and at school.
I will never forget the day my eldest, one of the smartest kids on the planet, was sent to Alternative School for being a registered smart aleck. Pat called me to give me advance notice and to implore me not to cut the boy’s head clean off.
When son-boy got home, I laid into him with verbiage more fitting to a tattoo parlor a block from a Naval Base. He smiled and said, “You don’t get it, Pop. I’m in heaven. In Alternative School there’s pregnant girls and Hispanics who are still learning English. Heck, I’m king of Alternative School.”
He wisely left when I was looking for the machete.
I’m happy now I didn’t decapitate him. He’s a tenured professor with a Ph.D. in the New York City University system.
But I digress.
Let’s go back to that paying teachers what they are worth part.
$70,000. A tidy sum. But I wouldn’t bat an eye about watching my tax dollars go to worthy teachers.
Operative word: Worthy. There are way too many teachers in our schools who are in it for the wrong reasons: Summer vacation, long holiday breaks, retirement program, etc.
The problem with schools today is multi-faceted: Schools systems, state and local district stupid rules, the lack of qualifications for school board members, and parents’ abdication of responsibility in the education process.
Let’s make it simple.
The voting public should create a hell storm for legislators and mandate that all stupid rules that have nothing to do with teaching basic core material be eliminated.
Eliminate all fluff courses (look at the local handbook on courses; you can identify them readily) and put resources into remediation of students who need help.
Reduce the number of administrators and of those administrators that are left, all must teach at least one course.
Slash each school’s athletic budget by half and put the money into resources, like corporate-sponsored laptops for each student entering high school.
Tap into the community’s retiree community and solicit student aides, tutors and mentors.
Get rid of all rules prohibiting school administrators from coming up with ideas for identifying those teachers who cannot teach nor motivate. One idea: Using unbiased outside consultants, observe classroom performances of teachers and act on recommendations. Only three grades given: Adios, needs improvement with a short timeframe for improvement, and whatever-you-are-doing-keep-it-up.
(Before the fiscal hawks have a meltdown, consultants don’t have to be expensive. Work up a swap program with a nearby community and use retired teachers – the good ones – as evaluators.)
And, go to year-round schools. Our society is to no longer agrarian and this asinine summer vacation system needs to go by the wayside.
Succeed or fail? Right now, the system is failing. If you can’t see that from local and national district test scores, from the remediation rate of college freshmen, and from the fact that the U.S ranking worldwide is falling faster than an anvil dropped from an airplane, then maybe remediation is needed by the person in your mirror.
That said, education in general in this country is, on the International Education Suckability Scale, a rousing, romping 1.2 on a 10-point scale.
While I have an opinion and know how to use it, I also have credentials that give me the right to power-punch the existing education system and all of its auxiliary ills. I have a teacher’s degree and have taught at the high school, community college and university level.
That doesn’t qualify me for squat. What does is the fact that I have four children who were educated in high schools in Texas and Arkansas, to some degree; the oldest two have advanced degrees and are professionals of note.The youngest daughter is a college graduate and the youngest son is exploring the world before he tackles higher education. All four are outstanding and will succeed in life.
Part of the credit for the success of the oldest two goes to certain teachers, and certainly to former Superintendent Pat Smith, an old school (pun intended) administrator who demanded the absolute best from her staff and from the students under her care. But, honestly, the teachers got a lot of help from home. Both parents set rules about educational expectations, made sure the kids knew the rules and the consequences for failure to do their best.
And, tough love was administered when applicable … both at home and at school.
I will never forget the day my eldest, one of the smartest kids on the planet, was sent to Alternative School for being a registered smart aleck. Pat called me to give me advance notice and to implore me not to cut the boy’s head clean off.
When son-boy got home, I laid into him with verbiage more fitting to a tattoo parlor a block from a Naval Base. He smiled and said, “You don’t get it, Pop. I’m in heaven. In Alternative School there’s pregnant girls and Hispanics who are still learning English. Heck, I’m king of Alternative School.”
He wisely left when I was looking for the machete.
I’m happy now I didn’t decapitate him. He’s a tenured professor with a Ph.D. in the New York City University system.
But I digress.
Let’s go back to that paying teachers what they are worth part.
$70,000. A tidy sum. But I wouldn’t bat an eye about watching my tax dollars go to worthy teachers.
Operative word: Worthy. There are way too many teachers in our schools who are in it for the wrong reasons: Summer vacation, long holiday breaks, retirement program, etc.
The problem with schools today is multi-faceted: Schools systems, state and local district stupid rules, the lack of qualifications for school board members, and parents’ abdication of responsibility in the education process.
Let’s make it simple.
The voting public should create a hell storm for legislators and mandate that all stupid rules that have nothing to do with teaching basic core material be eliminated.
Eliminate all fluff courses (look at the local handbook on courses; you can identify them readily) and put resources into remediation of students who need help.
Reduce the number of administrators and of those administrators that are left, all must teach at least one course.
Slash each school’s athletic budget by half and put the money into resources, like corporate-sponsored laptops for each student entering high school.
Tap into the community’s retiree community and solicit student aides, tutors and mentors.
Get rid of all rules prohibiting school administrators from coming up with ideas for identifying those teachers who cannot teach nor motivate. One idea: Using unbiased outside consultants, observe classroom performances of teachers and act on recommendations. Only three grades given: Adios, needs improvement with a short timeframe for improvement, and whatever-you-are-doing-keep-it-up.
(Before the fiscal hawks have a meltdown, consultants don’t have to be expensive. Work up a swap program with a nearby community and use retired teachers – the good ones – as evaluators.)
And, go to year-round schools. Our society is to no longer agrarian and this asinine summer vacation system needs to go by the wayside.
Succeed or fail? Right now, the system is failing. If you can’t see that from local and national district test scores, from the remediation rate of college freshmen, and from the fact that the U.S ranking worldwide is falling faster than an anvil dropped from an airplane, then maybe remediation is needed by the person in your mirror.
The more things change …
(Note: Marshall, Texas, as noted by Bill Moyers, is a place where my heart returns when it is in need of a goodly serving up of memories.)
Twenty years ago I left Marshall after a decade of living, loving and laughing in my favorite town on earth. Every community ... EVERY community ... has its share of smiley times and warts. Marshall is no exception. Observations from long distance reveal the following:
THINGS THAT REMAIN THE SAME
1) Marshall is still a stable population town. As the old joke goes, seems like every time a baby is born, some man leaves town. And it’s still a town where the only population growth is in the cemetery.
2) A majority of local politicians still think they are omnipotent and that the public is a herd of dunces that needs to be treated like mushrooms…kept in the dark and covered in, well, euphemistically speaking, fertilizer.
3) The town still is in need of a few good funerals to get it untracked and on a progressive path.
4) The progressive volunteer spirit of community activists – those that are visible and many more who work behind the scenes – is as active as ever.
5) The next generations of movers-and-shakers are following in the steps of their predecessors, some immersing themselves in good works, some working from the perspective of maintaining the family history linked to greed, turf, territory and ego.
THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED
1) Downtown is more vibrant with new restaurants, shops, events and attractions.
2) Downtown doin’s have grown exponentially. Fun on the streets!
3) The total aura and majesty of Wonderland of Lights declined dramatically, but is now on the uptick.
4) The FireAnt Festival has become “just another festival.”
5) The Courthouse Museum finally is living up to its potential.
6) Downtown bathrooms are looking like they will be a reality.
7) Ms. Chuck Wilson is still plying her personal form of racism in order to maintain her high Look-At-Me!-I’m A Black Leader! profile.
8) At one time, City Hall officials had a clue. With a few exceptions, officials now advocate and hold firm to a know-nothing philosophy.
9) King Richard is no longer holding court.
10) The local media no longer leads the charge to help create a better community, but seems content to sit back, observe and comment.
11) The resurrection of Weisman’s into a gathering place is a true wonder.
But the most drastic and visible change, and also the biggest (pun intended) change is the fact there’s definitely more cleavage in the area now than there was “back in the day.” (See photo gallery at easttexastowns.com).
Twenty years ago I left Marshall after a decade of living, loving and laughing in my favorite town on earth. Every community ... EVERY community ... has its share of smiley times and warts. Marshall is no exception. Observations from long distance reveal the following:
THINGS THAT REMAIN THE SAME
1) Marshall is still a stable population town. As the old joke goes, seems like every time a baby is born, some man leaves town. And it’s still a town where the only population growth is in the cemetery.
2) A majority of local politicians still think they are omnipotent and that the public is a herd of dunces that needs to be treated like mushrooms…kept in the dark and covered in, well, euphemistically speaking, fertilizer.
3) The town still is in need of a few good funerals to get it untracked and on a progressive path.
4) The progressive volunteer spirit of community activists – those that are visible and many more who work behind the scenes – is as active as ever.
5) The next generations of movers-and-shakers are following in the steps of their predecessors, some immersing themselves in good works, some working from the perspective of maintaining the family history linked to greed, turf, territory and ego.
THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED
1) Downtown is more vibrant with new restaurants, shops, events and attractions.
2) Downtown doin’s have grown exponentially. Fun on the streets!
3) The total aura and majesty of Wonderland of Lights declined dramatically, but is now on the uptick.
4) The FireAnt Festival has become “just another festival.”
5) The Courthouse Museum finally is living up to its potential.
6) Downtown bathrooms are looking like they will be a reality.
7) Ms. Chuck Wilson is still plying her personal form of racism in order to maintain her high Look-At-Me!-I’m A Black Leader! profile.
8) At one time, City Hall officials had a clue. With a few exceptions, officials now advocate and hold firm to a know-nothing philosophy.
9) King Richard is no longer holding court.
10) The local media no longer leads the charge to help create a better community, but seems content to sit back, observe and comment.
11) The resurrection of Weisman’s into a gathering place is a true wonder.
But the most drastic and visible change, and also the biggest (pun intended) change is the fact there’s definitely more cleavage in the area now than there was “back in the day.” (See photo gallery at easttexastowns.com).
Alliteration, anyone?
Milquetoast
monkeys masquerading
as mouthy, magnanimous
mannequins, messaging mundane myths
to mankind, melancholy macro metaphors
and meandering maxims meaningful
to munificent muggles
manifesting methodical
masochism.
monkeys masquerading
as mouthy, magnanimous
mannequins, messaging mundane myths
to mankind, melancholy macro metaphors
and meandering maxims meaningful
to munificent muggles
manifesting methodical
masochism.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Full circle
In 1870-71 Charles Montgomery Andres and his wife Nancy Ann Waddle Andres started construction on a dogtrot house on a small rise in what was then Hempstead County, Arkansas. Fourteen decades later his great-grandson, George Sidney Smith, and his wife, Bobbie Jean McCarty Smith, started construction of a dogtrot on the same location.
Rocks and bricks from the first structure's two fireplaces will be combined into the Smith's fireplace. Wood from a two-room cypress house on the property was salvaged and made into furniture -- corner cabinet, wine rack/table, mantle and hanging artwork -- for the new structure.
The Smiths retirement home was built to accommodate visits by their extended families, and especially for their grandchildren: Bryan, Jordyn, Brayden and Colton, and great-niece Jayden.
(NOTE: The date on the photo is in error. The picture was taken June 25, 2011.)
God's special gift
I don’t exactly know when I started thinking bad thoughts about my sister. But I know it was close to when she was born.
I was five and ready for a little something to play with that didn’t have anything to do with sock puppets or a broken Slinky.
Having my own personal, living, breathing play-pretty would be fun. Momma and Daddy and sundry relatives told me so and back then I tended to believe adults whatever they said.
Aunt Betty Ann scratched my head and said in a loud, clear voice: “Won’t it be fun to have a little brother or sister?” I’m sure I nodded yes, because Aunt Betty was pretty and she constantly told folks I was “the smartest thing in this world.”
Nanny, my grandmother, who referred to me as her “special trial,” told folks – some who knew us right well and some who didn’t – that “I love Butch a lot. Somebody has to.” She also said, “A little brother or sister is the best gift God can give a child.” Nannie obviously believed her God-gift logic and followed it to the letter, having given each of her children eight separate God-gifts.
In the five-year-old mental Mixmaster called “conscious thought,” I extrapolated Nanny’s God-gift theory to puppies and kittens and wondered if cats and dogs were happier because they had litters. Human babies, mostly came along as onesies.
I decided I wanted Momma to have a litter so I would have lots of brothers and sisters to play with.
My grandfather, Daddy George, was partial to girls and ordered my mother to bring forth the family’s first granddaughter. After six grandsons, he was ready for a grandchild with indoor plumbing.
One night at the supper table, Momma asked: “How’d you like to have a baby brother or sister?”
“Don’t know. Never had one. Can I go play?”
I took my plate to the kitchen, went out the front door and crawled under the house and sat there, thinking. Five minutes later I was at the Lassiter’s, waiting on Billy to get through with dinner.
Billy was two years older and went to school. Scholarly. Sophisticated.
As we walked to the schoolyard park down the street I told him I was getting a new brother or sister.
“Your dad done knock your maw, huh?”
“Daddy never hit Momma. You take that back!”
“He didn’t hit her. He ‘knock’ her. That’s what married couples do when they want to have kids.”
I knew that Daddy never knock nobody, much less Momma. I didn’t know much about ‘knocking’ but I knew that me getting a baby sister or brother didn’t have nothing to do with nobody hitting anybody.
Billy wouldn’t shut up. He told me that babies came from the daddy knocking the mommy and that it took a while to know if there was going to be a baby or not. If there was, then the mommy’s belly got big, then bigger. (“It look so big you’d swear it’s gonna pop,” he said.) And after a year or two, the mommy went to the hospital or to the back of the house and came back skinny, toting a baby.
I went home and when I walked in the kitchen, Momma was standing by the sink, washing dishes. I looked at her stomach. Iron-face flat.
“It’ll get bigger over the next several months, Butch,” she said, reaching out and ruffling my hair. “The baby will be growing in my tummy.”
I went to bed that night worrying about my baby brother or sister growing inside Momma. I didn’t know if I was more worried about the baby or Momma. To me, it seemed like a bad bargain for both of them.
You hear all kinds of clap-trap when you’re a kid. I was told about 113 times by well-meaning adults that my brother or sister was going to be coming from the cabbage patch. Or that Momma would wander off one day and find the baby in a hollow stump. The stork thing was the stupidest. We were in Hope, Arkansas. No storks to speak of. A few cow birds that looked like miniature storks. But, certainly, no storks, and nothing big enough to carry a baby.
As the months passed, it seemed like Momma was taking her own sweet time hatching the baby. There had been the end of fall, a whole winter and spring, and still no baby. My sixth birthday was close by and I wanted a new fishing pole and some proper bobbers made from red-and-white plastic, not the old cork ones that were so drab and unassuming so as to practically shout “Dumb!” or “Poor!”
Knowing grownups in general like I did, I figured they might try and sneak the baby in as my birthday present and rob me of the new fishing equipment. I let Daddy know first-up that would not be sufficient after he surmised the baby might come on my birthday.
“Don’t plan on sharing my birthday with your’s and Mommy’s baby. It’s my birthday and it’s going to stay my birthday, and that’s that!”
Daddy grinned and clapped me on the back. “I’ll just tell your mother she’s not to have the baby on your birthday.”
“Good. Go tell her.”
Daddy was good at his word. Andrea Dale was born two days after my birthday, on June 5, 1951. I think I started disliking her the first time I saw her in the hospital. She had a forest of solid black hair that stood straight up from her head. Her face was red and scrunchy. Slight slits were stuck where eyes should have been.
She looks like a monkey, I thought. Actually, I said it out loud and was quickly hushed by a bevy of relatives nose-pressed to the glass in the nursery at the Julia Chester Hospital on Highway No. 4 South.
“She’s the prettiest little thing I ever saw,” Nannie said.
Old woman’s lost it, I thought.
“I think she’s precious,” Daddy George opined.
Him, too.
I found myself at the back of the relative herd, looking at backs of knees and assorted sizes rear-ends that ran from extra-small to Triple X.
Better view than looking at the monkey girl.
I was five and ready for a little something to play with that didn’t have anything to do with sock puppets or a broken Slinky.
Having my own personal, living, breathing play-pretty would be fun. Momma and Daddy and sundry relatives told me so and back then I tended to believe adults whatever they said.
Aunt Betty Ann scratched my head and said in a loud, clear voice: “Won’t it be fun to have a little brother or sister?” I’m sure I nodded yes, because Aunt Betty was pretty and she constantly told folks I was “the smartest thing in this world.”
Nanny, my grandmother, who referred to me as her “special trial,” told folks – some who knew us right well and some who didn’t – that “I love Butch a lot. Somebody has to.” She also said, “A little brother or sister is the best gift God can give a child.” Nannie obviously believed her God-gift logic and followed it to the letter, having given each of her children eight separate God-gifts.
In the five-year-old mental Mixmaster called “conscious thought,” I extrapolated Nanny’s God-gift theory to puppies and kittens and wondered if cats and dogs were happier because they had litters. Human babies, mostly came along as onesies.
I decided I wanted Momma to have a litter so I would have lots of brothers and sisters to play with.
My grandfather, Daddy George, was partial to girls and ordered my mother to bring forth the family’s first granddaughter. After six grandsons, he was ready for a grandchild with indoor plumbing.
One night at the supper table, Momma asked: “How’d you like to have a baby brother or sister?”
“Don’t know. Never had one. Can I go play?”
I took my plate to the kitchen, went out the front door and crawled under the house and sat there, thinking. Five minutes later I was at the Lassiter’s, waiting on Billy to get through with dinner.
Billy was two years older and went to school. Scholarly. Sophisticated.
As we walked to the schoolyard park down the street I told him I was getting a new brother or sister.
“Your dad done knock your maw, huh?”
“Daddy never hit Momma. You take that back!”
“He didn’t hit her. He ‘knock’ her. That’s what married couples do when they want to have kids.”
I knew that Daddy never knock nobody, much less Momma. I didn’t know much about ‘knocking’ but I knew that me getting a baby sister or brother didn’t have nothing to do with nobody hitting anybody.
Billy wouldn’t shut up. He told me that babies came from the daddy knocking the mommy and that it took a while to know if there was going to be a baby or not. If there was, then the mommy’s belly got big, then bigger. (“It look so big you’d swear it’s gonna pop,” he said.) And after a year or two, the mommy went to the hospital or to the back of the house and came back skinny, toting a baby.
I went home and when I walked in the kitchen, Momma was standing by the sink, washing dishes. I looked at her stomach. Iron-face flat.
“It’ll get bigger over the next several months, Butch,” she said, reaching out and ruffling my hair. “The baby will be growing in my tummy.”
I went to bed that night worrying about my baby brother or sister growing inside Momma. I didn’t know if I was more worried about the baby or Momma. To me, it seemed like a bad bargain for both of them.
You hear all kinds of clap-trap when you’re a kid. I was told about 113 times by well-meaning adults that my brother or sister was going to be coming from the cabbage patch. Or that Momma would wander off one day and find the baby in a hollow stump. The stork thing was the stupidest. We were in Hope, Arkansas. No storks to speak of. A few cow birds that looked like miniature storks. But, certainly, no storks, and nothing big enough to carry a baby.
As the months passed, it seemed like Momma was taking her own sweet time hatching the baby. There had been the end of fall, a whole winter and spring, and still no baby. My sixth birthday was close by and I wanted a new fishing pole and some proper bobbers made from red-and-white plastic, not the old cork ones that were so drab and unassuming so as to practically shout “Dumb!” or “Poor!”
Knowing grownups in general like I did, I figured they might try and sneak the baby in as my birthday present and rob me of the new fishing equipment. I let Daddy know first-up that would not be sufficient after he surmised the baby might come on my birthday.
“Don’t plan on sharing my birthday with your’s and Mommy’s baby. It’s my birthday and it’s going to stay my birthday, and that’s that!”
Daddy grinned and clapped me on the back. “I’ll just tell your mother she’s not to have the baby on your birthday.”
“Good. Go tell her.”
Daddy was good at his word. Andrea Dale was born two days after my birthday, on June 5, 1951. I think I started disliking her the first time I saw her in the hospital. She had a forest of solid black hair that stood straight up from her head. Her face was red and scrunchy. Slight slits were stuck where eyes should have been.
She looks like a monkey, I thought. Actually, I said it out loud and was quickly hushed by a bevy of relatives nose-pressed to the glass in the nursery at the Julia Chester Hospital on Highway No. 4 South.
“She’s the prettiest little thing I ever saw,” Nannie said.
Old woman’s lost it, I thought.
“I think she’s precious,” Daddy George opined.
Him, too.
I found myself at the back of the relative herd, looking at backs of knees and assorted sizes rear-ends that ran from extra-small to Triple X.
Better view than looking at the monkey girl.
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