White, hot rage rose up from inside my chest and came out of my throat in a loud, horrible wail concluding in a shrill screech. I wasn’t getting my way and I hated everyone…especially Mom and my sisters.
When I was little, my family would offer to set my limp, fine hair. It never mattered to me if it was done or not. Then slowly as the years passed, I began to notice how much nicer I looked when my lazy-bum-tresses were curled.
At age twelve, my personality developed a new facet and the vain pussy-cat in me emerged. I rudely insisted my hair was properly dressed after every washing. The more I wanted it done, the less Mom and my sisters cooperated.
The Saturday morning that found me locked in our farmhouse bathroom, raging and howling, was the day my support staff, Mom and my sisters, flatly refused to set my hair anymore. In varying decibels, they each shouted, “You’re old enough to do it yourself!” Continue reading
Thick gray clouds hung low over the fields and farmyards that my bus rumbled past. I leaned my head against the cold window glass, enjoying being alone with my thoughts. One of my favorite songs was playing on the radio, a man singing the words, “From a Jack…to a Queen,” The drama in his beautiful voice, and the emotions his words conjured up in my twelve year old mind made me sigh deeply. Continue reading
I hastily ran a comb through my hair, picked up my purse and headed for the back door. Tammie was applying her make-up and didn’t have her shoes on. I chided, “Aren’t you ready to go YET?” We had several things planned for the day, so it was important to get an early start. Continue reading
Three-year-old Tammie, and seven-year-old Niki sat in the center of the living room floor playing with their dolls. Dropping down onto the sofa next to Arnie I said, “Girls…bedtime is in five minutes. Start putting things way for the night.”