Our Lord and Savior was only a small portion of
Sherry’s overall lawn décor. Never one to be light on
Christmas spirit, she decorated every inch of her place
with holiday crap—Santa on a motorcycle, reindeer that
played music, penguins popping out of present boxes,
oversized Stars of David’s (although we were rednecks,
not Jews).
“It looks like Christmas vomited all over Sherry’s
lawn,” Aunt Lynn said every year.
The kidnapping of Baby Jesus set into motion one of
the most turbulent times in our family history. Sherry,
deep in the throes of a midlife crisis, decided to throw
herself a new wedding. Here it was twenty-five years
later and she couldn’t be content with just a simple
renewal of the vows. No, she just had to do the whole
thing over, complete with the original wedding party,
which meant the involvement of Aunt Lynn and myself.
“Now, Maisy, you will have to get a new dress.
You’ve gotten taller in twenty-five years and definitely
won’t fit into your flower girl dress. You used to be so
cute too! But Lynn, I bet if you worked out at the gym
for a few months, you’d still be able to fit into your
bridesmaid dress,” Sherry told us, casting an appraising
look at Aunt Lynn’s already rail thin physique. “Of
course, you have aged a little…maybe you could buy some
new makeup.”
Lynn and I were not thrilled to be recreating the
moment evil came into our lives and Sherry, who had more
blackness in her soul than I realized, took it too far,
committing the cardinal sin of all time, the sin that
brought me to the dark side, the sin that made it okay to
steal one plastic Baby Jesus off of her septic tank hill.
She scheduled the wedding rehearsal the morning after
Thanksgiving.
To some, that may not make any sense. Why would that
matter? But if you are a hardcore purist like myself, the
significance of that day needs no explanation. Black
Friday. It’s the day the mall opens at 6:00am and widely
considered by shoppers to be the most wonderful day of
the year. The whole world is for sale or free stuff is
being given away.
My family has participated in this rite of passage for
years. We train for it, mentally prepping and honing our
ability to snag free things. Three days out from the big
day, Aunt Lynn will stake out the mall, getting the
layout of things so we can hit the stores quickly and
efficiently. A few years ago we really got organized and
now have walkie-talkies in order to inform each other of
ETAs (estimated times of arrival) and current location.
We fan out in the mall, seeing what the deals are,
reporting to each other in coded lingo hoping to confuse
nearby shoppers. But the most important thing we do is
determine which entrances of JCPenny’s we can enter to
grab the free Christmas ornament they put out every year.
The challenge is to get at least three ornaments per
person as keepsakes. We all have our own technique for
accomplishing this mission. My father likes to pull the
confused man card, feigning befuddlement over where the
ornaments are. Some kind sales person will send him in
the right direction and before you know it, he has a coat
pocket full of ornaments. No one plays confusion like
dad. Personally, I find wearing a coat with big pockets
especially effective. I can stuff about four ornaments in
each side pocket without being detected.
When Aunt Sherry announced her intention to hold her
second wedding on Black Friday, she might as well have
set a bomb off. Shouts of horror, cries of dismay,
profanity from Uncle Todd—it echoed around my
Grandmother’s worn living room. Sherry listened, big
crocodile tears welling in her eyes. She turned to Uncle
Edward, put her head on his shoulder and said, “See,
baby, I knew it would be like this. They don’t want us to
be happy.”
Edward glared at us. A Vietnam vet, he used to tell my
cousins and me that he could gut us all with his hunting
knife in ten seconds if we didn’t behave. One Christmas
he informed cousin Leonard that he’d shot one of Santa’s
reindeer in the haunch and that’s why Leonard would not
be getting any presents.
“Now, c’mon ya’ll,” Edward said, pushing his tobacco
chaw down into his lip where it stuck out like a bee
sting. “Sherry wants a nice ceremony with the family. I
don’t think it’s too much to ask ya’ll to attend and help
out a little. There will be other shopping days but only
one twenty fifth anniversary.”
For my Uncle Edward, that little speech was the
equivalent of Mel Gibson rallying the troops in
Braveheart. We were moved by it, just as those men
fighting under William Wallace’s command were moved and
just like those men, we began thinking in terms of war.
War against Aunt Sherry.
We shut up, minded our business, and did as we were
told because that’s the kind of family we are, though
fear of being gutted by Uncle Edward was a factor in my
compliance. When Thanksgiving arrived, anticipation was
in the air. Sherry gave us strange looks as we sullenly
munched on turkey and cranberry sauce. No doubt she was
worried we were acquiescing to her plans too easily,
probably having some anxiety that we would spoil
everything as we perused the morning paper, which was
heavily laden with advertisements for shopping deals that
would not be ours.
The following morning, Sherry furthered our
disgruntlement by showing up late to the wedding
rehearsal. Scheduled for 8:00am, it was another thorn in
our side. Why did we have to practice the wedding? It
isn’t that hard to walk down the aisle. It’s a straight
line for crying out loud! To top if off, we were dressed
in our formal clothes so we could take pictures during
the rehearsal instead of at the evening ceremony. When
Sherry swept in, a smug smile on her Yankee face, it only
confirmed to us that evil lived deep in her heart. It was
the last straw for Aunt Lynn.
After indulging in five glasses of cheap champagne at
the reception, Aunt Lynn revealed her plan. We were going
to hit Sherry where she lived, taking one of her most
prized and loved Christmas possessions—Baby Jesus. We
were to kidnap him from the septic tank, take lurid
photographs of him, and mail them to Sherry before
demanding a ransom.
“She doesn’t get Jesus back unless she collects ten of
the Thanksgiving Day ornaments from JCPenny’s that we
missed out on,” Lynn said.
“Oh and they were so cute this year! Did ya’ll see?
Little snowmen in a snow globe with cute hats on,” my
mother said, her heart genuinely yearning for that lost
ornament.
“Ten? Where is she going to get ten? JCPenny’s will be
out of stock by now,” Uncle Todd said.
“Who cares? If she doesn’t get the ten, we keep
Jesus.” Lynn splashed her glass in my direction. “You
still got that car seat, Maisy?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’re gonna need it to take ransom pictures
in,” Lynn slurred. “The whole mission goes down this
weekend. I heard her say that tomorrow night Edward has
to pull all the lawn decorations from storage, so that
means the septic tank will be graced with the presence of
our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I say we go in and
take the damn kid after midnight.”
We nodded our heads, caught up in the moment, in the
thrill of doing something totally despicable. As if one,
we turned and looked at Sherry who danced with Uncle
Edward. She glanced our way, little creases of worry
crinkling her forehead as we raised our champagne glasses
to her.
“To the happy couple,” Lynn called out, a sentiment we
graciously echoed.
The next evening found Lynn, Todd, and myself at the
septic tank, dressed in military fatigues. Sure enough,
Baby Jesus was there, smiling adoringly up at his plastic
mother and father. With shaking hands, Todd pulled him
free from the manger and hurried through the maze of lawn
blow-ups to Lynn’s jeep. Back at my house, we put Jesus
in my daughter’s old car seat and photographed him with
an old Polaroid camera I had. The next day the first
photo was sent.
Help…was all it said at the bottom of the picture,
which showed Baby Jesus with his eyes covered by a
blindfold and propped up in the car seat. The second note
sent a day later indicated he would lose his plastic baby
head if we didn’t receive the ransom listed in a timely
fashion. The third letter contained a small piece of one
plastic finger just to show our seriousness. It also
mentioned that when the ransom was exchanged, Jesus would
be returned.
We didn’t believe for one minute Sherry would have our
ornaments. How could she? The stores usually ran out by
7:00am the day after Thanksgiving anyway. No. Jesus would
find a new life in one of our yards, away from the bright
lights of the septic tank.
December twenty-third was our exchange day with the
location being at Cluck in the Bucket, the greasiest
chicken place in town and totally despised by Sherry. The
fourth ransom note had required Sherry to lay all ten
ornaments out in the alley behind the restaurant’s
dumpster. As the moment of the drop off arrived, I was
shocked to see Sherry’s big white Oldsmobile pull into
the parking lot and cruise to the alley entrance.
Hunkered down in my recently acquired black minivan with
Lynn and Todd, the smell of greasy chicken tempting our
nervous bellies, we observed Sherry look around
cautiously before entering the alley. A few minutes later
she emerged grim faced and drove off, tires squealing
behind her. Todd got out of the van and headed into the
alley.
He jogged back, a funny look on his face. In his hands
were the ornaments and something else, which fluttered
against his shirt. He flung open the van’s heavy side
door, dropped the ornaments on the floor, and said, “Look
at this!”
It was a picture of Aunt Sherry. She held all the
ornaments in her arms like a glass bouquet but somehow
she’d managed to lift the middle fingers of both her
hands in the time-honored salute of telling someone to go
to Hell. Her tongue stuck out and as Todd turned the
photo over, I noticed the writing on the back. Bring
Jesus home, bitches!
We stared in amazement at the little ornaments,
wondering how she’d managed to scrounge up ten of them.
She must have had to search everywhere, make deals, ask
for favors—all for her beloved plastic Jesus. Todd shook
his head in disbelief and got in the passenger seat of
the van. We prepared to take Jesus back, shocked we’d
gotten our ornaments and even starting to feel a little
guilty about the kidnapping. Well, maybe not all of us.
A loud clatter outside the van caused Todd and I to
look over at the open side door of the mini van. Baby
Jesus lay cracked open on the pavement, his head a mess
of weather worn plastic. The vicious, twisted look on
Lynn’s face and her right foot still in kicking position,
told us what had happened.
“Oops,” she said without a drop of remorse.
“Oh shit,” I groaned. “Get the duct tape.”
“Lots of it,” Todd agreed and got out to root through
my toolbox, where among other things, I had gray duct
tape. After collecting the arm and leg of Jesus, which
had also broken off, I scraped up as much of his head as
I could. Under the fluorescent lights of Cluck in a
Bucket’s parking lot, Todd performed emergency surgery.
The end result was pretty horrific. Unless there was a
miracle, Jesus would never light up again.
We drove to Sherry’s house where the three of us
begrudgingly put the maimed baby back in the manger and
tried to quietly creep away. Lynn made a stealthy exit
difficult by giving a parting kick to every lawn ornament
in our way. When we got to the van, a photo fluttered at
us from under the windshield wiper where it had been
tucked. Someone had been waiting for our arrival. It was
another picture of Sherry holding the ornaments but in
this one she stood next to a worn out salesgirl in front
of a small display table marked JCPenny. Propped up on
the table was a newspaper dated the day after
Thanksgiving. Pure, concentrated evil beamed from
Sherry’s smile and we realized she’d outsmarted us. No
wonder she had been late to the wedding rehearsal. That
bitch had been out shopping. The humiliation, the anger,
the defeat—it smothered us, as did the knowledge that
Sherry was rubbing our noses in it.
Wild, maniacal laughter soared through the air. I
turned to see Sherry on the septic tank, silhouetted by
the glow coming from Mary and Joseph. She reached down,
picked up Jesus, and held him high over her head.
“The wicked will be punished!” Sherry shouted.
A portion of Jesus’ duct taped skull fell off, hitting
her right in the head. The arm slipped free from its tape
restraint and before we knew it, the whole plastic baby
broke apart in her hands, silencing the hellish laughter.
“You bet your ass the wicked will be punished,” Aunt
Lynn called. “It’s a friggin’ Christmas miracle!”
The giggle built inside of us, bursting out, tinged
with hysteria. Sherry headed towards us and knowing
better than to stick around, we scooted into my van. As
I pealed away, a loud thump came from the back of the
vehicle. Sherry had thrown Jesus at us and his remains
bounced off the mini van, leaving a sprinkling of plastic
all over the street. We didn’t care. My family was good
and right with the world. I knew Jesus would forgive us.
Sherry’s overall lawn décor. Never one to be light on
Christmas spirit, she decorated every inch of her place
with holiday crap—Santa on a motorcycle, reindeer that
played music, penguins popping out of present boxes,
oversized Stars of David’s (although we were rednecks,
not Jews).
“It looks like Christmas vomited all over Sherry’s
lawn,” Aunt Lynn said every year.
The kidnapping of Baby Jesus set into motion one of
the most turbulent times in our family history. Sherry,
deep in the throes of a midlife crisis, decided to throw
herself a new wedding. Here it was twenty-five years
later and she couldn’t be content with just a simple
renewal of the vows. No, she just had to do the whole
thing over, complete with the original wedding party,
which meant the involvement of Aunt Lynn and myself.
“Now, Maisy, you will have to get a new dress.
You’ve gotten taller in twenty-five years and definitely
won’t fit into your flower girl dress. You used to be so
cute too! But Lynn, I bet if you worked out at the gym
for a few months, you’d still be able to fit into your
bridesmaid dress,” Sherry told us, casting an appraising
look at Aunt Lynn’s already rail thin physique. “Of
course, you have aged a little…maybe you could buy some
new makeup.”
Lynn and I were not thrilled to be recreating the
moment evil came into our lives and Sherry, who had more
blackness in her soul than I realized, took it too far,
committing the cardinal sin of all time, the sin that
brought me to the dark side, the sin that made it okay to
steal one plastic Baby Jesus off of her septic tank hill.
She scheduled the wedding rehearsal the morning after
Thanksgiving.
To some, that may not make any sense. Why would that
matter? But if you are a hardcore purist like myself, the
significance of that day needs no explanation. Black
Friday. It’s the day the mall opens at 6:00am and widely
considered by shoppers to be the most wonderful day of
the year. The whole world is for sale or free stuff is
being given away.
My family has participated in this rite of passage for
years. We train for it, mentally prepping and honing our
ability to snag free things. Three days out from the big
day, Aunt Lynn will stake out the mall, getting the
layout of things so we can hit the stores quickly and
efficiently. A few years ago we really got organized and
now have walkie-talkies in order to inform each other of
ETAs (estimated times of arrival) and current location.
We fan out in the mall, seeing what the deals are,
reporting to each other in coded lingo hoping to confuse
nearby shoppers. But the most important thing we do is
determine which entrances of JCPenny’s we can enter to
grab the free Christmas ornament they put out every year.
The challenge is to get at least three ornaments per
person as keepsakes. We all have our own technique for
accomplishing this mission. My father likes to pull the
confused man card, feigning befuddlement over where the
ornaments are. Some kind sales person will send him in
the right direction and before you know it, he has a coat
pocket full of ornaments. No one plays confusion like
dad. Personally, I find wearing a coat with big pockets
especially effective. I can stuff about four ornaments in
each side pocket without being detected.
When Aunt Sherry announced her intention to hold her
second wedding on Black Friday, she might as well have
set a bomb off. Shouts of horror, cries of dismay,
profanity from Uncle Todd—it echoed around my
Grandmother’s worn living room. Sherry listened, big
crocodile tears welling in her eyes. She turned to Uncle
Edward, put her head on his shoulder and said, “See,
baby, I knew it would be like this. They don’t want us to
be happy.”
Edward glared at us. A Vietnam vet, he used to tell my
cousins and me that he could gut us all with his hunting
knife in ten seconds if we didn’t behave. One Christmas
he informed cousin Leonard that he’d shot one of Santa’s
reindeer in the haunch and that’s why Leonard would not
be getting any presents.
“Now, c’mon ya’ll,” Edward said, pushing his tobacco
chaw down into his lip where it stuck out like a bee
sting. “Sherry wants a nice ceremony with the family. I
don’t think it’s too much to ask ya’ll to attend and help
out a little. There will be other shopping days but only
one twenty fifth anniversary.”
For my Uncle Edward, that little speech was the
equivalent of Mel Gibson rallying the troops in
Braveheart. We were moved by it, just as those men
fighting under William Wallace’s command were moved and
just like those men, we began thinking in terms of war.
War against Aunt Sherry.
We shut up, minded our business, and did as we were
told because that’s the kind of family we are, though
fear of being gutted by Uncle Edward was a factor in my
compliance. When Thanksgiving arrived, anticipation was
in the air. Sherry gave us strange looks as we sullenly
munched on turkey and cranberry sauce. No doubt she was
worried we were acquiescing to her plans too easily,
probably having some anxiety that we would spoil
everything as we perused the morning paper, which was
heavily laden with advertisements for shopping deals that
would not be ours.
The following morning, Sherry furthered our
disgruntlement by showing up late to the wedding
rehearsal. Scheduled for 8:00am, it was another thorn in
our side. Why did we have to practice the wedding? It
isn’t that hard to walk down the aisle. It’s a straight
line for crying out loud! To top if off, we were dressed
in our formal clothes so we could take pictures during
the rehearsal instead of at the evening ceremony. When
Sherry swept in, a smug smile on her Yankee face, it only
confirmed to us that evil lived deep in her heart. It was
the last straw for Aunt Lynn.
After indulging in five glasses of cheap champagne at
the reception, Aunt Lynn revealed her plan. We were going
to hit Sherry where she lived, taking one of her most
prized and loved Christmas possessions—Baby Jesus. We
were to kidnap him from the septic tank, take lurid
photographs of him, and mail them to Sherry before
demanding a ransom.
“She doesn’t get Jesus back unless she collects ten of
the Thanksgiving Day ornaments from JCPenny’s that we
missed out on,” Lynn said.
“Oh and they were so cute this year! Did ya’ll see?
Little snowmen in a snow globe with cute hats on,” my
mother said, her heart genuinely yearning for that lost
ornament.
“Ten? Where is she going to get ten? JCPenny’s will be
out of stock by now,” Uncle Todd said.
“Who cares? If she doesn’t get the ten, we keep
Jesus.” Lynn splashed her glass in my direction. “You
still got that car seat, Maisy?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. We’re gonna need it to take ransom pictures
in,” Lynn slurred. “The whole mission goes down this
weekend. I heard her say that tomorrow night Edward has
to pull all the lawn decorations from storage, so that
means the septic tank will be graced with the presence of
our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. I say we go in and
take the damn kid after midnight.”
We nodded our heads, caught up in the moment, in the
thrill of doing something totally despicable. As if one,
we turned and looked at Sherry who danced with Uncle
Edward. She glanced our way, little creases of worry
crinkling her forehead as we raised our champagne glasses
to her.
“To the happy couple,” Lynn called out, a sentiment we
graciously echoed.
The next evening found Lynn, Todd, and myself at the
septic tank, dressed in military fatigues. Sure enough,
Baby Jesus was there, smiling adoringly up at his plastic
mother and father. With shaking hands, Todd pulled him
free from the manger and hurried through the maze of lawn
blow-ups to Lynn’s jeep. Back at my house, we put Jesus
in my daughter’s old car seat and photographed him with
an old Polaroid camera I had. The next day the first
photo was sent.
Help…was all it said at the bottom of the picture,
which showed Baby Jesus with his eyes covered by a
blindfold and propped up in the car seat. The second note
sent a day later indicated he would lose his plastic baby
head if we didn’t receive the ransom listed in a timely
fashion. The third letter contained a small piece of one
plastic finger just to show our seriousness. It also
mentioned that when the ransom was exchanged, Jesus would
be returned.
We didn’t believe for one minute Sherry would have our
ornaments. How could she? The stores usually ran out by
7:00am the day after Thanksgiving anyway. No. Jesus would
find a new life in one of our yards, away from the bright
lights of the septic tank.
December twenty-third was our exchange day with the
location being at Cluck in the Bucket, the greasiest
chicken place in town and totally despised by Sherry. The
fourth ransom note had required Sherry to lay all ten
ornaments out in the alley behind the restaurant’s
dumpster. As the moment of the drop off arrived, I was
shocked to see Sherry’s big white Oldsmobile pull into
the parking lot and cruise to the alley entrance.
Hunkered down in my recently acquired black minivan with
Lynn and Todd, the smell of greasy chicken tempting our
nervous bellies, we observed Sherry look around
cautiously before entering the alley. A few minutes later
she emerged grim faced and drove off, tires squealing
behind her. Todd got out of the van and headed into the
alley.
He jogged back, a funny look on his face. In his hands
were the ornaments and something else, which fluttered
against his shirt. He flung open the van’s heavy side
door, dropped the ornaments on the floor, and said, “Look
at this!”
It was a picture of Aunt Sherry. She held all the
ornaments in her arms like a glass bouquet but somehow
she’d managed to lift the middle fingers of both her
hands in the time-honored salute of telling someone to go
to Hell. Her tongue stuck out and as Todd turned the
photo over, I noticed the writing on the back. Bring
Jesus home, bitches!
We stared in amazement at the little ornaments,
wondering how she’d managed to scrounge up ten of them.
She must have had to search everywhere, make deals, ask
for favors—all for her beloved plastic Jesus. Todd shook
his head in disbelief and got in the passenger seat of
the van. We prepared to take Jesus back, shocked we’d
gotten our ornaments and even starting to feel a little
guilty about the kidnapping. Well, maybe not all of us.
A loud clatter outside the van caused Todd and I to
look over at the open side door of the mini van. Baby
Jesus lay cracked open on the pavement, his head a mess
of weather worn plastic. The vicious, twisted look on
Lynn’s face and her right foot still in kicking position,
told us what had happened.
“Oops,” she said without a drop of remorse.
“Oh shit,” I groaned. “Get the duct tape.”
“Lots of it,” Todd agreed and got out to root through
my toolbox, where among other things, I had gray duct
tape. After collecting the arm and leg of Jesus, which
had also broken off, I scraped up as much of his head as
I could. Under the fluorescent lights of Cluck in a
Bucket’s parking lot, Todd performed emergency surgery.
The end result was pretty horrific. Unless there was a
miracle, Jesus would never light up again.
We drove to Sherry’s house where the three of us
begrudgingly put the maimed baby back in the manger and
tried to quietly creep away. Lynn made a stealthy exit
difficult by giving a parting kick to every lawn ornament
in our way. When we got to the van, a photo fluttered at
us from under the windshield wiper where it had been
tucked. Someone had been waiting for our arrival. It was
another picture of Sherry holding the ornaments but in
this one she stood next to a worn out salesgirl in front
of a small display table marked JCPenny. Propped up on
the table was a newspaper dated the day after
Thanksgiving. Pure, concentrated evil beamed from
Sherry’s smile and we realized she’d outsmarted us. No
wonder she had been late to the wedding rehearsal. That
bitch had been out shopping. The humiliation, the anger,
the defeat—it smothered us, as did the knowledge that
Sherry was rubbing our noses in it.
Wild, maniacal laughter soared through the air. I
turned to see Sherry on the septic tank, silhouetted by
the glow coming from Mary and Joseph. She reached down,
picked up Jesus, and held him high over her head.
“The wicked will be punished!” Sherry shouted.
A portion of Jesus’ duct taped skull fell off, hitting
her right in the head. The arm slipped free from its tape
restraint and before we knew it, the whole plastic baby
broke apart in her hands, silencing the hellish laughter.
“You bet your ass the wicked will be punished,” Aunt
Lynn called. “It’s a friggin’ Christmas miracle!”
The giggle built inside of us, bursting out, tinged
with hysteria. Sherry headed towards us and knowing
better than to stick around, we scooted into my van. As
I pealed away, a loud thump came from the back of the
vehicle. Sherry had thrown Jesus at us and his remains
bounced off the mini van, leaving a sprinkling of plastic
all over the street. We didn’t care. My family was good
and right with the world. I knew Jesus would forgive us.
Something about Sherry—her Yankee ways,
the loudness of her voice, her
inability to cook with seasoning salt,
the domineering attitude she treated us
with at family functions—got under Aunt
Lynn’s tough Texas skin. So when Lynn
suggested we steal Baby Jesus from
Sherry’s yard one Christmas season, we
weren’t surprised. Jesus had been a
the loudness of her voice, her
inability to cook with seasoning salt,
the domineering attitude she treated us
with at family functions—got under Aunt
Lynn’s tough Texas skin. So when Lynn
suggested we steal Baby Jesus from
Sherry’s yard one Christmas season, we
weren’t surprised. Jesus had been a
running joke in our family for years. The plastic one, I
mean. See, Sherry lived in the country and when she and
Uncle Edward originally moved to the property, they’d had
to dig their own septic tank. The endeavor created a
small hill and every year Sherry displayed her beloved
and worn plastic light up Nativity scene on top of it
where it shined brighter than a lighthouse beacon and
could be seen by neighbors in two counties. We often
wondered what Jesus would have thought about living on
top of the septic tank.
mean. See, Sherry lived in the country and when she and
Uncle Edward originally moved to the property, they’d had
to dig their own septic tank. The endeavor created a
small hill and every year Sherry displayed her beloved
and worn plastic light up Nativity scene on top of it
where it shined brighter than a lighthouse beacon and
could be seen by neighbors in two counties. We often
wondered what Jesus would have thought about living on
top of the septic tank.
Stealing Jesus was not my idea. I could never think up
anything so heinous on my own. No, Aunt Lynn is the one to
blame.
Aunt Lynn never cared for Aunt Sherry, calling her a
Loretta Lynn wannabe with fat brown sausage curls and blue
sparkle eye shadow. Uncle Edward introduced Sherry to us
on Christmas Eve when I was five years old. I still
remember the way she looked that evening, decked out in a
long red, glittering dress as if she was about to sing on
the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. Sherry was a Yankee and
when I asked what that meant, my mother whispered, “It
means she’s from up North and doesn’t have any manners,
Maisy.”
anything so heinous on my own. No, Aunt Lynn is the one to
blame.
Aunt Lynn never cared for Aunt Sherry, calling her a
Loretta Lynn wannabe with fat brown sausage curls and blue
sparkle eye shadow. Uncle Edward introduced Sherry to us
on Christmas Eve when I was five years old. I still
remember the way she looked that evening, decked out in a
long red, glittering dress as if she was about to sing on
the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. Sherry was a Yankee and
when I asked what that meant, my mother whispered, “It
means she’s from up North and doesn’t have any manners,
Maisy.”
| by Mary Ann Loesch |
