Mrs. Mills was a southern lady with kind eyes, a love for teaching and an unhurried accent that made even a good scolding sound pleasant. She was just what my rambunctious fourth grade class needed.

Arranged in alphabetical rows, we learned cursive and long division, discovered that boys were smelly and girls could be fickle. Just beginning to glimpse the world beyond playground boundaries, we were innocent and carefree, soaking up history, science and life like kitchen sponges.

While Walter Cronkite spoke of Watergate, I perfected my advanced levels of jacks—Around the World and Pigs in the Pen.

During harvest, a cotton trailer became my playground.

During harvest, I began counting down to Christmas.

Sunday mornings were spent at Brinkley Chapel, singing hymns and trying to concentrate on the message. I prayed for my dark soul and for bright, sun-shiny days. I prayed my stomach wouldn’t growl during the ‘every head bowed and every eye closed’ part.

I longed to be Marcia Brady but instead looked like Jan.

I was going to be a nurse and a wife and a mother.

I carry this picture to remember where I started. I carry this picture to remember who I am.

talya

Musical Pairing:

I Can See Clearly Now, Johnny Nash