Clinto Pinto

by Dale Hudgins Copyright May 26, 2005

I'll start this by rehashing one of my memories of living in the house that my Father, W.M. Hudgins, Junior built during one of the few times he was sober long enough to do much of anything. 

The house was a yellow-painted masonite siding, four bedroom, 2 bathroom rectangle, gabled roofed building.

I choose the word building instead of home or house because to me, it felt like neither of the former.  The place was just one big war room for all seven of us that lived there.  If it wasn't me and my sister fighting and arguing and she getting so riled up at me that she would rail on and on calling me any sort of name that came to mind.  Usually the words weren't very complimentary in form, but she meant well, yes, hell yes, she meant to try to attack me in her 90 mile an hour torrent of cuss words, words to try to make me mad or anything she could think of to piss me off and when she ran out ammo, she got into such a frenzy trying to call me names that she, and it was funny most of the time, that she would if I recall this part right, she would call me De, Di, Dicky, Di, Dicky-di, Do-damn dumb, etc.  She would continue on like that until I thought sometimes she was going to have a damn stroke getting all worked up like that.  Her tirades, meant to piss me off, hurt my feelings, or whatever, in retaliation for whatever in the hell I had done to make her like this twisted-up contorted freak, or that's what I recall thinking that's what she reminded me of when this all occured.