Pretty: Excerpts from Chapter 16

…In first grade I often stood in front of the double dresser that was in my bedroom facing the mirror that hung above it. I stared as hard as I could but I could not see myself. I could only see the light reflecting on the mirror and I said to myself, “Would have been such a pretty girl.”

I felt so bad. Why was I blind? What had happened to me? Some kid said my right eye looked white with red in it and the other eye had a little blue. I pulled on my eyelids by the eyelashes just to have some contact with my eyes.

I thought about what my nine-year-old friend Maureen said sometimes. “You would have been a really pretty girl if you could see.” Or what my eight-year-old friend Carol said to me, “Your eyes look bad, but, oh, well…”

Anytime someone wanted to take my picture, I turned my back to the camera. I spent countless hours trying to see myself in that mirror. I have never recovered from my unhappiness over the blindness and the disfigurement. It was seemingly more than I could deal with and yet I have dealt with it.

Sometimes I thought about the witch in Snow White: “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?”

As I grew older I realized the importance of appearance in women’s lives. Women constantly look in mirrors to reassure themselves that they look okay.

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My Eyes: Excerpts from Chapter 15

“I told you about the plumber unstopping our kitchen sink with Red Devil Lye. You were standing by me and I was ironing. You ran over to watch him. At just that moment the plumber plunged the lye and it struck you in both eyes.”

I knew Momma was upset but I didn’t care. I crossed my arms. I heard Beany’s collar jingle. She thumped her tail against the dining room wall and I knew where she was. “Let’s sing a song,” Momma said rather quickly. “How about ‘Romeo’?”

Romeo went roamin’

That’s how he won his name

Romeo went roamin’

That’s how he won his fame

A roamin’ in the gloamin’

He came upon Juliet

With his cute little ladder

He didn’t think he had her

But he said I’ll get you yet—

“But why?” I cried out.

“Suffering is a mystery,” Momma said. “Anyway, being blind is better than having a bad disposition. “Now go outside and play. I want to finish David Copperfield, even though I’ve read it three times.”

I headed toward the front door. Beany followed me. I felt for her ears. German shepherds have the softest fuzz on their ears. Hers felt like velvet. I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. Beany rushed by me and I heard her toenails click down the steps.

I turned left and felt for the big wooden porch swing and for the rightmost of the two chains from which the swing hung. I softly sang a nonsense song that Billy’s class had learned last year. “Simonize your baby with a Hershey’s candy bar, / And see the difference Drano makes in every movie star!”

I swung as high as I could in the porch swing. I had to get my mind on something else. Robert Louis Stevenson occurred to me.

How I do like to go up in a swing,

Up in the air so blue?

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing

ever a child can do!

Up in the air and over the wall,

Till I can see so wide,

Rivers and trees and cattle and all

Over the countryside—

Till I look down on the garden green,

Down on the roof so brown—

Up in the air I go flying again,

Up in the air and down!

I heard kids talking and their footsteps walking by in front of my house. I didn’t recognize their voices. I automatically covered my eyes with one hand. I knew I would be much prettier if I hadn’t gotten lye in both my eyes.

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Games: Excerpt from Chapter 14

…Our house had two bedrooms; Momma gave one to Billy and one to me, while she slept on a daybed in the dining room. As an adult, now I realize what a sacrifice Momma made so that Billy and I could each have our privacy. She didn’t have much of her own with her bed in the dining room and the two of us constantly dashing in and out.

Billy and I made up a game we called Get Across. We had a long, wide living room. In the game, my base was a built-in bookcase and Billy’s base was the front door directly across from it. When it was my turn, I was supposed to crawl across the rug (which smelled like Beany) and touch Billy’s base.

“You’re first,” Billy shouted. “On your mark, get set, go!”

I crawled as fast as I could to what I knew was Billy’s base. He tackled me. He sat on my chest and pinned my arms to the floor. His breath smelled like a Hershey bar.

“Momma, tell Billy to get off me.” I yelled.

Momma was smoking a cigarette and reading David Copperfield. “Settle it yourselves,” she said in a calm voice.

I offered Billy a Mickey Mantle baseball card and a piece of flat pink bubble gum. Billy said that suited him fine, and he let me go.

To this day, I find it amazing that my mother did nothing to intervene. Here sat my older, sighted brother on top of his younger, blind sister. Yet I am very grateful to my mother for allowing me to be an equal to my brother.

“Now let’s go play Imaginary Man,” my brother said.

“Okay,” I said.

I walked over to Momma’s bed in the dining room and coughed on cigarette smoke. “Hello, darling,” Momma said, “Look out for the floor lamp I pulled over here. It is usually beside the piano. Don’t trip on the cord.”

I tried to avoid the cord but stepped on Beany’s tail. She growled.

“I’m sorry, Peggy, I’m sorry, Beany,” Momma said.

“Come on,” Billy yelled from the back door.

“Give me a kiss and then run along and play,” Momma said.

I could smell the smoke but Momma always moved the cigarette out of the way of kisses. I heard Beany head toward the back door. “Sooey, piggy, piggy,” Billy called from the back door.

“Good-bye Momma,” I said.

“I love you, peachcake,” Momma said.

Billy slammed the back door, which must mean Beany had gone outside. But where?

I pushed open the back screen door and ran down the four steps. I didn’t take time to pet Wicky, the cat, who was always sitting on the stairwell. At the bottom of the steps I called, “Where’s Beany?”

“She ran down the alley toward the park. She’ll be gone for a while.”

I found the pecan tree we used as home base. Billy put a kickball in my hands. It smelled like rubber. I put it on the ground in front of me to kick. I kicked the ball and headed for the oil drum that was first base. “I have the ball,” Billy yelled. “But I will let you touch first. Leave an imaginary man there and go back home.”

As I headed for home, I said the poem “Jenny” to myself:

Jenny made her mind up at seventy-five,

That she would live to be the oldest woman alive

But Gin and Rum and destiny played their tricks

And Jenny kicked the bucket at seventy-six.

I tripped over the ball. “The ball is right in front of you,” Billy said.

“Duh, now,” I said.

I put out my hand and touched the pecan tree. I found the ball with my foot and kicked it forward. I headed back to first while my imaginary man headed to second. Second was a crape myrtle tree. “I’ll let you make it to first again,” Billy said. “Then you will have an imaginary man on first and an imaginary man on second. And you can kick again.”

So I went back to home base and kicked again. Billy immediately tapped my arm with the ball. “You’re out!” We played for just one out.

I walked to the pecan tree in the middle of the yard that was where the pitcher stood. “Roll the ball here, here, here,” Billy called from home base.

I rolled the ball and I heard his shoe connect with it. I heard the whoosh of the ball in the air and the sound as it landed in the neighbor’s yard.

“Home run!” Billy shouted.

“I’m going inside to talk to Momma.”

Playing Get Across taught me resourcefulness.  But what did Imaginary Man teach me other than that most of the time I would lose?  Still, I had Billy on quite a pedestal, because he was so smart.  He called me “Piglet” and “Idiot Head Retardo,” but he also exclaimed “bad chair!” when I ran into one, and he threatened to beat up kids who made fun of my eyes.

I found Momma still reading in bed. “Don’t take it too seriously,” Momma said.

Sometimes I hated my mother. “Momma,” I burst out, “What happened to me?”

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Coffee Table: Excerpts from Chapter 13

…At Grandmomma’s that night I was in the sitting room with Billy. I got up to pace around and ran into the piano bench. Then the coffee table. “Bad coffee table,” Billy said. “Bad bad piano bench.”

I asked him about shock treatment and he said he really didn’t know what it meant. “I’m going outside,” he said.

I felt the sofa I was sitting on. It had two slipcovers, one for summer and one for winter. Since it was winter, I knew the sofa had on what Grandmomma had described as a “dark green winter” slipcover. The winter slipcover had a smoother feel than the summer one. Grandmomma had told me that the summer slipcover was white.

If I knelt on the sofa facing backward and spread my arms wide, I could feel the books on the huge floor-to-ceiling bookcase behind the sofa. My grandfather kept all his legal books there, along with some novels. Most prized were some slightly worn family Bibles at the end of one shelf. The names William McCann Paul “Billy” and Margaret Mason Paul “Peggy,” along with our birthdates, appeared in the Daniel family Bible.

I felt a large, old-fashioned radio sandwiched between the sofa and the bookcase. It was made of smooth wood. I felt the mesh front and pushed it inward. Grandmomma had told me the mesh covered the speaker. Momma said she used to listen to Little Orphan Annie on the radio. Grandmomma said the family used to listen to FDR’s Fireside Chats on the radio until she and Granddaddy decided the country was going to the dogs and FDR was responsible.

Only at suppertime did the TV trays sit between the coffee table and the sofa. Otherwise, the coffee table stood alone. On it sat four plastic blocks, each with different-colored sides. Grandmomma called the set of blocks a conversation piece. I could only see the red sides. Billy said the other sides were blue, green, orange, yellow, and white. The idea was to put all the greens in a row, all the reds in a row, and so on. Perhaps it was a forerunner to the Rubik’s Cube.

Grandmomma also had a small black-and-white TV on the coffee table. It was the one on which she watched the news and the game show Jeopardy. Sometimes she would turn her black-and-white TV into what she called a poor man’s color TV. This meant she would put a translucent, snap-on cover over the regular TV screen. Billy said the cover made the TV screen look blue at the top and green at the bottom, and that in between the blue and green were sections of yellow and red. If the picture on the TV screen was of a blue sky with a yellow sun and a red house and green grass, then everything looked fine. Otherwise, the picture looked strange. Grandmomma had a stack of Town & Country magazines on the coffee table as well. Sometimes I liked to pick up a print magazine and pretend I was reading it. But usually Billy would come along and say, “You have that magazine upside down, piglet.” His nickname for me wasn’t meant to be mean. It was just a play on my name, Peggy.

Sometimes our dog, Beany, thumped her tail on the sitting-room rug and I could hear it. Other times, if Beany was sleeping quietly, I might trip right over her and she’d growl and I would bump into a piece of furniture. It is incredible how much time blind people spend running into things.

Grandmomma also had an upright piano in her sitting room. I could feel the framed pictures on top of the piano when I stood on the bench. Momma never minded if I stood on piano benches, but Grandmomma greatly minded. Billy said a lot of the pictures were of him, Momma, and me before I was blinded.

Momma came home from the hospital after six months. I had just finished kindergarten and I had not yet entered first grade. She and Billy and I moved into the bungalow Granddaddy had bought for us.

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Depressed: Excerpts from Chapter 12

…The next day Momma went to the hospital. “Why did Momma go to the hospital?” I asked my grandparents. “She’s depressed,” Granddaddy said. Billy and I had pork chops with baked apples and sweet potatoes and baked onions and rice and gravy on our TV trays that night. I asked Billy again what “depressed” was, “Remember, Piglet, it means you are sad a lot and you cry a lot,” Billy said. “You know how Momma didn’t come out of her room lately?  When I saw her eyes the other day it looked like she had been crying.”

I needed to think that over.  “Depressed,” was a big word for a kid in kindergarten.

One day Grandmomma and Granddaddy took Billy and me to see Momma in the hospital. The hospital smelled so clean. We had to sit in a waiting room and someone brought Momma out to meet with us. I heard a heavy door open and close and just before it closed, I heard someone scream. Then, Momma was hugging Billy and me. She was crying. She stopped and said, “I’ll be home soon, little darlings. Granddaddy bought us a house. You will each have a nice bedroom. We will get a dog and have birthday parties and everything will be nice.”

“Can I have a piñata  for my birthday party?” Billy asked. “Yes, you can.  And Peggy you can, too.” “What’s a piñata?” I asked.  And I looked outside and the sun was shining. “It’s an animal made of papier-mâché that you hang on a tree. You take turns hitting it with a stick and when it breaks open candy falls all over the ground,” Billy said importantly.

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Making Friends: Excerpts from Chapter 11

…Becky, one of the girls in my kindergarten class, was chosen to be a sunbeam. She said she felt sorry for me, because I could not be a sunbeam. She invited me to come spend the night at her house so we could play together.

Becky lived in a two story house across the street from my grandmother. When we stepped inside, it felt warm not drafty like my grandmother’s house. It smelled fresh and clean. Before Becky guided me up the steps, she said there were fourteen of them. I counted and she was right. Falling up steps is not too frightening, but falling down steps is a major fear of all blind people.

Becky guided me to her room and put my hand on her bed. I immediately felt a lot of stuffed animals. I picked up a teddy bear and gave him a big hug. “My stuffed animals are mainly bears and rabbits. She continued, “I love animals. I have both stuffed animals and tiny china animals. I’ll let you feel my collection of tiny china animals.”

I immediately recognized the giraffe with his log neck and the elephant with his tusks.  “Here’s a rhino with just one horn,” Becky said. I also felt a lion, a tiger and a hippopotamus. Hippopotamus was a big word for kids in kindergarten. “I keep my china animals on my bedside table,” Becky said. I listened as she replaced the animals one by one on her bedside table.

“What color is your room?” I asked. “It’s painted yellow,” she said. “I have two windows with white curtains with butterflies on them and the curtains are trimmed in lace. My mother hung a picture on the wall of my brother and me playing at the beach.”

Well, I slept in Grandmomma’s little front bedroom where I could feel some of the wallpaper peeling off the walls. Becky’s bedroom had the sound of a big bedroom to me.  As we sat on her bed, I told her the newest rhyme I had learned:

“Milk, milk, lemonade. Around the corner fudge is made.”

I pointed to the appropriate body parts. We giggled and giggled. Then, she said she was going downstairs to ask her mother what we were having for dinner. I heard the door to her bedroom close behind her. I heard her light footsteps run down the stairs. Carefully, I found the china elephant on the bedside table. I had put my little suitcase on the end of the bed. I placed the china elephant in the bottom of the suitcase and zipped it up. Just then Becky ran back into the room and said she had told her brother the rhyme, and her brother told their mother and their mother slapped him. On top of that, Becky didn’t have a chance to ask her mother what we were having for dinner. At that point I wanted to leave but I was determined to spend the night. I knew that when I had to talk to Becky’s mother I would feel uneasy.

The next morning when the doorbell rang and I heard my grandmother’s voice I was so glad. I rushed home with Grandmomma and up to my little bedroom. I opened my suitcase and found the elephant. But his back leg had broken off. I never stole anything again.

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Exclusion: Excerpts from Chapter 10

…That night as Billy and I ate pot roast and potatoes and carrots on our TV trays, I told him about my day.  Billy seemed much older and wiser than I. “Those kids were mean to you,” Billy said. “You can’t help it if you can’t see. I’m going to  beat those kids up.” Well, I thought I might just tell those kids what my big brother had said.

In 1958, no kindergarten in America had accommodations for kids with disabilities. My mother had made a very interesting decision. She told me later that she hadn’t wanted me to live away from the family at a school for the blind. She had also wanted me to adjust to the sighted world starting at an early age. Certainly, I learned to live in the sighted world at a young age. However, I missed out on things by not going to a school for the blind, such as friendships with other blind children. Adults I know who attended schools for the blind have remained close to many of their blind classmates, but I have never had a close blind friend.

Things got worse at kindergarten. Before long it was October and Mrs. Brooks wanted us to cut out Halloween pumpkins and then paste them on a huge piece of paper on a wall.  I told Billy about it and he asked our grandfather if he would buy me a little plastic jack-o-lantern with a handle. My grandfather bought it for me and I loved feeling the eyes, nose, and mouth with teeth. Billy said the jack-o-lantern was orange and the eyes, nose, mouth and teeth were black. I proudly took my new toy to school but Mrs. Brooks said she didn’t know what we could do with it, because we couldn’t paste it on the wall with the other pumpkins. I wanted to cry but I never cried.

So, I just sat and listened to the other kids opening and closing their scissors as they cut away on construction paper. I did like the smell of paste and I tasted it one time. It tasted okay.

At Thanksgiving Mrs. Brooks had the class cut out construction paper turkeys and at Christmas she had the class cut out Christmas trees. I just sat and listened. After Christmas Mrs. Brooks said we would start practicing for a play.  Some of the girls would be sunbeams and wear yellow costumes and dance across the stage at the elementary school where we would perform the play. I asked Mrs. Brooks if I could be a sunbeam, but she said I wouldn’t be able to do the dancing. She said I would need to wear a blue dress and sing a song with John who would wear a blue seersucker jacket.

Grandmomma had told me that John seemed kind of retarded. I guessed that meant he was dumb because some of the kids in the class said he was dumb. When we added sums like two plus two and three plus three, he never seemed to know the answers. I asked Billy what “retarded” meant. He said he thought retarded people were dumb, but they couldn’t help it, so you shouldn’t make fun of them.

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Starting School: Excerpts from Chapter 9

…“Grandmomma said I have to go to kindergarten,” I said. I directed this comment toward my brother, who I assumed was still sitting at the other end of the sofa. “Kindergarten is easy,” Billy said.

Grandmomma and Granddaddy want me to go to the School for the Blind in St. Augustine, but Momma wants me to go to school with sighted kids.” “You have to color pictures in kindergarten,” Billy said.  “That might be hard for you.” “I can see red,” I said. “But there are a lot of other colors,” Billy said. “Like there’s green and yellow and orange and blue and purple and brown and black and white.” “Also, you have to start raising your hand in kindergarten,” Billy said. “I’ll show you later how to hold your hand up.  You have to raise your hand a certain way and you can’t wave it around.”

Momma, Billy and I were all living in Grandmomma’s house. Momma stayed in her room, the middle bedroom, most of the time.  When I went to visit her, I could tell the room was very dark even in the daytime. It smelled like cigarettes.

Grandmomma took me for my first day of kindergarten. I wore a new dress. Grandmomma said it was pink and made of cotton. Clara starched and ironed it for me, and, when I put it on, she buttoned it up the back. She said I looked pretty and I should feel the smocking which felt like a design in the top front of the dress.

When Grandmomma dropped me off, Mrs. Brooks, the kindergarten teacher, took me by the hand and walked me to a table. I bumped into the corner of the table but it didn’t hurt my leg very much. One of the great frustrations of blindness is walking into things.  Not only did we sometimes hurt ourselves but it seems like other people think we are clumsy.

I heard the chair scrape on the floor as Mrs. Brooks pulled it out for me.  Somehow I got myself seated.  The kids sitting on each side of me asked, “What’s wrong with your eyes?” “I got lye in them,” I said. “What’s lye?” they asked. “Something you pour in the sink when it is stopped up,” I managed to say. I wanted to leave. The kid on my right said, “Oh, I am glad I don’t look like you.” The kid on the left said “Oooh,”

I heard someone clapping the way Grandmomma clapped when she wanted Billy and me to pay attention. Mrs. Brooks said, “We will now color a picture.” Someone put a piece of paper in my hands. I heard the rustle of papers being passed out to what I figured was the rest of the class. “Here are your crayons,” Mrs. Brooks said and put a box of crayons into my hands. I opened the box and smelled the crayons. I loved their smell. I held the box close to my eye and looked for a red one.

“Children,” Mrs. Brooks asked, “what outline do you see on your piece of paper?” The piece of paper looked and felt blank to me. “A house,” everyone else shouted. “Go ahead and color,” Mrs. Brooks said. I put my face down on the paper but I couldn’t see an outline at all. I wondered what a house looked like.

I decided to color up and down on the paper with the red crayon.  I had heard of red brick houses. “You’re not staying in the lines,” the kid next to me said.  “You must be blind.”

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Grandmother’s House: Excerpts from Chapter 8

…Soon after we got to Jacksonville, Momma checked into the hospital for depression.  “What’s depression?” I asked Billy as we sat on a bed in our grandmother’s front bedroom.

“I think it means you cry a lot and are always sad,” Billy said. He began to describe the room we were in. “This room has eight windows and two walls,” he said. “It has a fireplace with another fireplace just below it in the living room. They share a chimney.  Grandmother has Oriental rugs in this bedroom and they are really old.”

“Peggy, Billy, come eat your supper,” called Clara, my grandmother’s cook. Billy ran down the stairs toward the front hallway with me in hot pursuit. I counted five familiar steps to a landing, then three final steps to the hallway. I made my way to the sitting room and felt for my TV tray, then felt for my place on the sofa to sit with the tray in front of me.  Clara always served us on TV trays with newspaper underneath to catch any spills. “I’m putting the newspaper under your TV tray right now,” Clara said. I heard the newspaper crinkle and the light thud of the tray as she set the legs on the newspaper.

I smelled fried chicken and in a moment Clara put a plate on my tray. “You have fried chicken and rice and gravy and squash and string beans and a hot biscuit all buttered. Don’t that sound good, darlin? Now, I’m gonna go get Billy’s.”

“Oh, go on, Billy,” Clara said. I knew he had jumped up and untied her apron. Billy and I ate in silence. I could hear my grandmother’s voice in my head saying, “Chew with your mouth closed.” My favorite part of supper was dessert. “Here’s your vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce,” Clara said. “The spoon is in the bowl on your right.” “Thank you, Clara,” I said. I stirred my vanilla ice cream and chocolate sauce together until I had soup.

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Divorce: Excerpts from Chapter 7

…“Momma said she and Daddy are getting a divorce,” a seven-year-old Billy said. “What does that mean?” I asked. “There’s a kid in second grade who said his parents are getting a divorce,” Billy said. “His father left and he just lives with his mother.”

“Why are Momma and Daddy getting a divorce?” I asked.

“I heard Momma say Daddy just lost another job and he drinks all the time.”

We were sitting on Billy’s twin bed in our room. I felt the satiny smooth headboard. I had a matching bed and Momma had told me the wood of the headboards was brown. “Who would we live with?” I asked. “Momma said we would go live with her and our grandparents in Florida,” Billy said.

“I’m scared of Daddy.  He bought me a doll stroller and I ran it into a new chair  and ripped the—what do you call that stuff that covers a chair?” “Upholstery,” Billy said sounding important.

“Well, I think Momma is a lot nicer than Daddy,” I said. “So do I,” Billy said.

In 1959 very few people got divorced. If they did, the person seeking the divorce had to have a good reason. Daddy separated from Momma a few years after my accident but it was Momma who ultimately sought a divorce. For years, I didn’t know what the formal grounds for the divorce were. In 1984, right before her death, Grandmomma said to Billy, “We had tapes.”

“Tapes of what?” Billy asked. “Tapes of your father with other women.” “What?” Billy asked in astonishment. “Your grandfather hired a private detective to follow your father around…So, the grounds for the divorce were infidelity.”

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The Statue: Excerpts from Chapter 6

…I was four when Daddy bought a statue of a lady and put it on the sideboard in the dining room of our house in Houston. He said it was made of marble, and I was not to touch it. I had no interest in the statue. I loved my toys, which were in the bottom of the sideboard. I kept my Tiny Tears doll there. Her eyes were perfect and both of them opened the same amount. I also had a top. I could put the top on the floor and spin it, but then when it spun away, I couldn’t find it.

One day Daddy said I could hold the statue and feel it.  He said, “Here she is, Peep-eye.” My dad had called me Peep-eye since before I was blind.  He would hold his newspaper in front of his face and then lower it and exclaim, “Peep-eye.” The statue felt hard and smooth.  “Those are her breasts,” Daddy said.  I felt two round bumps on the front of the statue.  “Momma has breasts,” I said. “Nice ones,” Daddy said. Then I felt the statue’s hair which was hard. Her arms and legs were long.  I reached up and felt her eyes. They opened the same amount. “What color is our statue, Daddy?” “White,” he said.

The next day Momma said it was Thanksgiving Day. Billy and I were sitting at the dining room table playing Rock, Paper, Scissors. I felt the sun streaming in on my arms and face. Momma said she would be serving dinner soon on her beautiful plates with a different bird on each one. She said I would have the Scissor-tail Flycatcher and Billy would have the Canadian Jay. “I smelled that funny smell on Daddy again today,” Billy said. “You did?” I asked. “Somebody said it’s from drinking whiskey,” Billy said.

I wondered what whiskey was.  It smelled strange.  Sometimes Daddy smelled like cigars. Suddenly I heard Daddy’s footsteps running through the dining room and then the loud shattering of glass….

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The Church: Excerpts from Chapter 5

…Momma and I went to church one Sunday when I was four. She took me to the nursery and told me to stay there. But the children in the nursery were crying and I started to cry. A man who smelled like Daddy and cigars carried me into the church and sat me beside Momma. It was cold in the church and I snuggled up to her soft mink coat. Momma smelled like perfume, I think she called it Arpege.

The organ began to play and I sat quietly in the pew. Momma stood to sing “Oh, Jesus, I have promised” and I knew these words because Momma sang them around the house every day.

After church Momma took me by the hand. We walked outside the church and I knew we had steps to go down. “Five steps down,” Momma said and she sounded cross. I carefully held her hand and counted down the five concrete steps.  I tried not to make a sound with my patent leather Mary Janes. Momma and I kept turning corners. This was not the way to the parking lot.  I put out my free hand and felt the bricks of the church wall as we passed by.  Something was wrong.

Suddenly, Momma stopped and said, “You should have stayed in the nursery.  I wanted to be by myself in church to listen to the sermon and read the Bible without interruption.” Momma grabbed me hard…

That night Momma was over being mad. She read Billy and me some books like “A Child’s Garden of Verses” and “Rikki Tikki Tavi.” I was well into adulthood before I understood what triggered my mother’s anger.

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