Mad About Hats

    In my late teens/early twenties, I lived for a couple of years with my older sister Phyllis in an apartment in Greensboro. Both of us worked at jobs and when we had a few extra dollars in our purses, we did what sisters do -- we went shopping.

    The particulars of those trips are lost in the sunsets of our lives, but one of our escapades managed to withstand the rigors of passing years. The reason it stands out is that my quiet unassuming proper sister and I sort of caused a scene in a department store. 

Tissue Issue

When my husband's mother passed away several years ago, he and his sister were still working at jobs and their time was limited. I had already retired, so I took on the duty of emptying his mom's kitchen cabinets, dresser drawers, closets and anything else that needed to be emptied.

        I spent several days alone in my mother-in-law's house, mostly in her bedroom, sifting through everything from nightgowns to slips to pantyhose to make-up and jewelry. From the closet, I pulled out familiar sweaters, jackets, trousers, and like-new dresses. As I continued performing this tearful task, a pattern began to emerge.

Matchsticks

     When my oldest brother Charles, the firstborn of our family, was a little boy, he went with our parents to visit Daddy's first cousin, Thurman, the brother of James. I only mention James because he used to come see us and I remember him, but I have no recollection of Thurman.

    They were sons of Uncle Martin, the brother of my paternal Grandmother; more relatives of my past whom I do not remember, which has nothing to do with this story except for explaining the familial trail and letting the reader know that most of these people, although in my ancestry, are figments of my imagination.