a story of my mother

    My mother grew up in Lake Village, Arkansas. The lake was one of those long fingers of the Mississippi that was left behind by the river. She was the preacher's daughter. She was probably 4 or 5 when this happened, putting it in the mid to late 1930s.

     It was some church function and it was time to eat. My mother came into a room with a tray of fruits and such. She heard a woman say, "That's the preacher's daughter." A second woman said, "Oh. Not very p-r-e-t-t-y, is she?" And my mother said,  "I may not be p-r-e-t-t-y, but I am s-m-a-r-t", and left the room.