Mother/Daughter: Excerpts from Chapter 2

…I suppose that day in Houston in 1955 began like any other day.  My brother, Billy, age four, and I, age two and a half, would have bounded out of bed early.  I understand that, on this particular day, Billy went to a playmate’s house.  As usual, Daddy would have driven off to work as a geologist at an oil well for Shell.  I’m sure I watched his brand new car as he backed down the driveway.  He always honked as he turned onto the street.

Later that morning, Momma said she was reading to me on the fluffy gray sofa in the living room.  She said I had refused to change out of my pink nightgown and insisted on wearing my red rubber rain boots even though it was a sunny day.

She read from “A Child’s Garden of Verses:” “I’m hiding, I’m hiding and no one knows where; For all they can see are my toes and my hair.”

The doorbell rang.  I jumped up and ran to the door in my red rubber rain boots and opened it.  Our white cocker spaniel, Snowy, flew to the door with me barking fiercely.  Snowy shot right on outside.

“Hooray, it’s the plumber!  He’s going to fix the kitchen sink,” Momma said. ”I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to pour hot grease down the kitchen sink.  By the way, I’m Mary Jean Paul and this is Peggy.”

“I’m Mark,” the plumber said.