We planned a bar-be-cue to help put Barry in the White House, bought a pig, took it to a black man in the country to cook meat, hash and sauce. His plump brown daughter leaned over an oak chip fire stirring, her skirt rising behind. I stared, caught her father’s eye, turned pink. “Republicans, huh?” he asked. I nodded. “Hope it kills forty of you,” he said.
Mother Was A
Mother was a customs agent in San Francisco. I remember her high-button shoes, black skirt to her ankles, and white blouse. She carried a pistol in her purse. Once she ran across a railroad trestle pistol in hand chasing a smuggler. She used to say I want to put you in my pouch and keep you.