![]() ![]() The fear and guilt of the summer of 1932 still clings to my memory like the wet heat of southern Virginia. They drag on and on, making slow things seem slower and bad things seem worse. To top it off, here in the South, summers are long and hot and sticky. And the summer I turned eleven, a drought took the corn crop and we couldn’t have any corn for my birthday, which is what I’d always done because my favorite food was corn from Daddy’s field, boiled in a big pot. The summer I turned seven, my dog Skippy ran away with a tramp who jumped the train to Baltimore. The summer I turned five, Granny Rose died of a heart attack during the Independence Day fireworks. ![]() Every bad thing that ever happened to me seemed to happen in those long months. That’s a heavy burden for a girl to hang on to, but it didn’t surprise me so much to have that trouble come in the summertime. The summer I turned thirteen, I thought I’d killed a man. ![]()
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