Often when I read a novel, especially one from a favorite author, I wonder who the author really is. Not just the quick little note, “Mr. Or Mrs. Or Miss Author lives in a small town with his/her wonderful family and sweet dog (or cat)” listed in the following pages or on the book jacket. I’m old fashioned and still prefer traditional paperback. Not knocking e-reading. Just a preference. So what makes us tick?
For me, that’s a long story. One I’m willing to share, and it’s not pretty. Well, some of it was happy, but mostly I was that girl no one wanted to be friends with or if they did they were very gracious. I was a wonderfully sweet little girl, but I had less than desirable living conditions that caused my clothes to stink. I also knew very little about personal hygiene due to parents who either chose to fight, or stay gone so much, I suppose they forgot or just thought a child came preprogrammed with such instincts. My childhood home was also so overran with dogs, that the animals voided in every possible bit of free floor space. It wasn’t unheard of for one to do a driveby leghike while you were standing there minding your own business.
My sister and I also used to play a game called Stomp the Roaches. At night, we’d turn off the light in the kitchen. After two minutes, we’d flip the light on, and squeal in delight as we stomped as many roaches as we could. When we started, there were normally enough to cover every two to four inches.
I grew up thinking everyone lived this way. It wasn’t until I fell asleep in my living room, probably in the floor, and a roach crawled into my ear that I started to wonder differently. Its legs clawed at my eardrum causing me agony for three days until it died. I told my mama over and over that something was in there. She did nothing about it till I began screaming and crying because
the roach struggled so that the noise became so loud it was unbearable.
To be continued…