Down south, sweltering weather conditions most days were

intense enough, folks became ill at ease. Thunderous storms

produced lightening, crude enough to fuel a fire I’ve often

wondered how many preachers would admit, they cursed just a

little. Beads of sweat dripped off of my forehead running

into my eyes, feeling as if, salt were poured into them.

Swarming bees, pestering bugs and dirt daubers zoomed

around provoking me to dance with every beat of sound in

tune. Annoying and gnawing blood sucking mosquitoes made

quick withdrawals pecking at my skin. Ten-minutes of

tugging and wresting with clothes adhered to my skin turned a

simple task to use the john into a chore. Playing in blistering sun,

enduring temperatures one hundred degrees plus many summer

days were miserable enough; however, being locked inside a

dark gloomy, mildew storm cellar was a curse. Cobwebs creped

across my skin sending cold chills up and down my spine, as

the grimy red clay oozed between my bare toes, to harden and

crack as they dried. Then, after the storm, the nasty reflection

from my hectic day stared right back at me, as I gazed into the

bottom of the pan of water with sediment settling and adhering

to the soapy washcloth grandma used to scrub the dirt and grime

from my tender young skin.