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by George Strange I was six years old when it happened that August day seventy years ago. My He laughed and took it off. "Makes* me feel sissy-like standing before God and the world in an unmade shirt." sister was staying with Addie, and having our parents all to myself I ran in celebration on the front porch. Around my "I got no pattern for it," she said, "and you wouldn't let me fit you. It was the best I could do." mouth was dried brown stain of apple butter. Ma was sewing an enormous red shirt that would have swaddled me com- "It's going to be pretty, Rachel. Going to be just fine," he said. Already though he was into something. His voice dropped off the way a rooster's crow does when you fling a stick at him. His hands didn't ever tremble and his pletely. It dangled from the rocker. Pa stood with one foot on the porch rail, his deep blue eyes set on some distant point. I ran up beside him, threw my foot on the bottom rail and pretended to set my eyes on the distance. He saw me and eyes didn't blink
Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press
Published: Jan 8, 1980
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