In 1954 Robert Bannister was the first man to run a mile in less than four minutes. Before that time experts and sports writers thought it was impossible. Bannister was a good runner but suffered some sizable defeats in his career. After his failure at the 1952 Olympics, Bannister spent two months deciding whether to give up running. Instead he set a new goal: to be the first man to run a mile in under four minutes.
And he did it… because his heart and mind were determined and focused. So his body followed.
Now old people sometimes break the four minute mile because they believe in their hearts in can be done.
Some folks want to say man kind has gotten faster because of advanced training and nutrition. But take a look at racehorses. Their training, nutrition and even breeding have improved DRAMATICALLY. Saddles are lighter, jockey and trainers are smarter but horses haven’t really gotten much faster.
Racehorses, unlike human beings have improved a little but not really that much. In 1915 regret won the Kentucky Derby with a time of 2:05, and the winners in 2010 and 12 were both 2:04. One notably exception. in 1979 Secretariat ran the derby in 1:59. In more than thirty years.
Why are humans getting stronger and faster but horses are not? It’s all in our head and our heart.
My daddy, I. Granger, McDaniel always told me, “when you imagination excepts it as reality, it will become the truth.”
When I was a little girl I didn’t understand.
When I was in high school I rolled my eyes.
When I was in college I thought his idea was bull shit. (most college students are such know-it-all-doubters)
But now I understand and I believe. I know he was right.
When we invest our heart and soul completely and we are willing to do the hard work (that’s were most of us fail cause sometimes hard work sucks), we can do anything, because we are human and we have the heart for it.
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Tags: belief, faith, human heart, I Granger McDaniel, racehorses, Roger Bannister, soul
First, school life, specifically high school life, can be brutal. Kids live in a fish bowl with 642 other gold fish. Disagreements erupt, students say horrible things, do really mean stuff and it’s impossible to really get away. You they are in a damn glass bowl! All they can do is swim to the other side and stare through the glass.
As an adult, it’s easy to tell our kids to “get over” things that happen in school but their environment is so different from ours. It’s hard to ignore or avoid conflict and bad behaviour when you are literally forced to stay in the same building, maybe the same room, all week long. When somebody ticks me off or is rude at work, I close my office door, I can walk away. Hell, I can get in my car and drive away. High school kids can’t do escape the morons and idiots.
Our taekwondo family gives my kids an alternate fish bowl. The snarky BS girls say at lunch doesn’t exsist when you get to class. Nobody knows them or cares what they say. They don’t matter because they don’t work out and they are not part of our family. Our taekwondo school, like any other extra curricular activity, is a respite and gives kids a break from the battle.
Reason number two: You learn getting hurt probably won’t kill you.. Rather than sitting around playing video games after school my kids have figured out they can get punched or kicked and keep on going. Yeah, it hurts but it’s not really that big a deal. So many kids are really really afraid to start sparing because they don’t want to get hurt, then they learn…..it’s ok. And we are all a little stronger than we think.
And finally there are tournaments. There are winners and losers and my kids, even after all these years, are still learning how to be gracious at both. This weekend Sandor got a 1st and a 3rd. Look at this face. Does he look like a good loser or winner? Hell no! So we had talk, he could be a happy winner or a sad loser, it was his decision. After thirty minutes and a pep talk from a much older and cooler boy, he was a super happy kid.
Unlike most sports, when you are part of the martial arts world you get to see your coaches and instructors do amazing things. They may be 30, 40 or 50 even 60, but instructors and adult students are still doing awe inspiring stuff. They are, still punching and kicking, still jumping like kitty cats, still working to improve, rather than getting fat on the sidelines. Grown men and women in the martial arts act just like 14 year old boys. How cool is that?
Maybe your alternate universe/family is basketball, or art, or dance. It doesn’t matter. As long as your family and especially your kids know school is important but it isn’t real life. It’s a fish bowl full of good and bad fish. And sometimes you just need to swim away
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She was a performer, a singer with extraordinary pipes. But she did not change the cultural landscape of America. It is not the “end of an era” and this is not a “inexplicable or unprecedented tragedy”. Hey, CNN stop spending hours talking about the “death of an icon” and New Jersey sure as hell shouldn’t put the flags at half mast. It’s an absurd reaction.
Whitney Houston was a great singer who over dosed. So, why are we acting as though the center piece of American entertainment died?
Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, Chuck Berry(still alive), Ray Charles and Hank Williams, Cab Calloway, Patsy Cline even Jimi Hendrix were geniuses who changed our cultural landscape. Once they showed up, things were never the same.
Those performers were more than Whitney Houston, they were more than singers. They brought fresh ideas and talents to the table. They changed the way we thought, they did things no one ever did before, their lyrics or riffs were brilliant and bright and awe inspiring.
I stopped watching the news for two days because I was so tired of hearing about Whitney’s funeral services and Bobby Browns bizarre behaviour.
Yes, she was a lovely singer. But,our world shouldn’t stop because she died. So hit the play button and lets move on to the next track. It’s time to dance.
* Tell me what you think. I really want to know. Leave a comment or email me at email@example.com
Tags: cnn, death, elvis presley, entertainment, icon, michael jackson, ray charles, Whitney Houston
My ego often times rides on morning success. If the forty five minutes before the bus arrives goes well, I’m convinced everyone will have a bright and shiny day and I get to drive to work feeling like a successful mother. If the morning is ugly, filled with tension or tears, I end up clutching the wheel, convinced everyone will have a terrible, awful, no good, day really bad day
Mornings are like see-saws made out of Legos. Too much pressure and the whole damn thing falls apart. When Mary was little she hated socks and having her hair brushed so mornings were really treacherous.
Now it’s Lexie, Sandor and me in the morning. Lexie keeps herself on track. She’s sleepy but focused in the morning. She has a high school routine and it’s important not to derail her train. Left alone she is excellent as long as there is hot water and cereal. I just have to say the right things when she asks about belts, shoes, shirts and hair. Crimped or straight? Pony tail or crazy insane curls? Cowboy boots or Pumas?
I try not to give her jobs in the morning, instead I make a list and leave it on the kitchen table. At the end of the list there are lots of xxxooo because I love her so much, especially when she unloads the dish washer.
At nine, Sandor is an entirely different creature. He’s a sloth like animal who doesn’t like to eat first thing in the morning. He doesn’t want to do anything except hug for the first hour.
In the morning, Sandor sees his clothes but I have to remind him to put them on. He sits in front of his bowl of cereal but I have to remind him to eat. He finds his shoes but I have to insist he puts them on.
One tactic I use on Sandor to wake his fuzzy brain up is silly, but works. I set up goofy games on the kitchen table or leave a puzzle out with only two missing pieces.
This morning I sat on the edge of his bed. “There’s a secret message on the kitchen table for you.”
“What is it?” He opens his eyes.
“Not telling, you have to check it out yourself.”
“Who left it?”
“I don’t know.”
He staggers out and laughs when he sees my stupid message made with Scrabble letters. It says, ”Yo Gangsa Face”. I leaveextra letters out so he can add to the note. He’s a nine year old boy so, of course, he adds the word “butt”. The word “butt” makes everything funnier.
Mornings can be tricky but I have skills and sometimes manage to avoid the land mines.
*What’s your secret in the mroning? Comment or e-mail me. I love that. firstname.lastname@example.org
Tags: breakfast, children, kids, mornings, routine, sleepy
I swing back and forth. One day I am paralyzed by the fear of age. I don’t want to get any older I’ve got to much to do, I want to learn to surf. I love rock climbing walls and live bands. I was the baby in the family I can’t get old.
And then there are the days I look at seniors and I’m filled with admiration for old people, especially when they are fearless.
Last week I watched an older lady climb on the cyborg like elliptical machine at Anytime Fitness. She was wearing yellow polyester pants and a sweat shirt with a spotted cat mad out of sequins. Still she climbed onboard as thoughborn to elliptical. She set the resistance and incline fearlessly and her skinny legs began churning away. Then she plugged her earphones in.and changed the tv channel so she could watch Ellen. |Hell yeah, that’s how you work out at 70.
Last week I ate lunch with a lot of sixty year old men in the Ohio Club, a fantastic historic bar in Hot Springs, AR. Everybody tells stories and makes fun of each other.Jimmy Young brought his mother, a lovely eighty year old who cheerfully sipped a pint of dark beer while the rest of us drank sweet tea. She was wonderful and witty. Drinking dark beer at noon when you’r eighty, that’s how to roll it right as a senior citizen.
Recently my son worked out with his 25 year old boxing coach. Tony has a full sleeve tattoo, it’s a swirling dragon fish combo that’s actually really pretty. I took lost of pictures. Latter that afternoon I pictures of Tony and Sandor working out in tank tops, on Facebook. Tony called me and said he’d “untagged” himself . He explained his grand parents are his friends on FB and they don’t know about his giant swirling tattoo. How cute is that? Old people on Facebook, poking around, tagging, lol-ing and thumbs up-ing just like college sophomores.
Honestly, I wish my mother-in- law would get on Facebook, or at least learn to e-mail. We live 1500 miles apart and if she would just try to get on line she would be so much more connected with her grand kids. She is missing out and so are my kiddos.It almost makes me mad.
Hopefully, when I’m 80 and my kids want to visit with me via hologram I will embrace the idea simply to be closer to those youngsters. And I hope in turn, they will be just like Tony the boxing coach and protect me from all the wicked stuff out there. I hope I won’t be afraid to hang out with the boys and have a beer and I hope I’ll have the guts to jump on a treadmill or elliptical and speed off in my bedazzled kitty cat sweat shirt.
Comment or write to me email@example.com. Thanks, DH
Tags: exercising, Facebook, old people, tattoos, working out
It’s Valentine’s Day. Alex is sooo sick…coughing up his lungs and gasping for breath. Still, when I hugged him good- bye this morning he grabbed my butt. The man is about to die in his bathrobe, but he thinks there’s a chance …… Well good for you Alex. That makes me proud.
I wrote this last year and it’s still true. Men want younger, hotter women, no matter how old they get. Damn it. When I was 25 I thought it was great. Now it makes me mad.
I know dozens of middle age menwho would give up both their pinky fingers to be with a 25 year old woman. They would book a room in a heart beat because that’s the way guys are.
For most men, youth is the hottest attribute. A semi-pretty 25 year old is better than a hot 50 year old. Yeah, men are kind of scummy but it’s not their fault. God made them that way. Young and hot, in the boy brain means they can produce lots of off-spring. Guys think they just like big boobs but what they really like is a woman with big boobs who can feed a whole pack of children.
When I look at 25 year old men I think, “wow, he’s go nice skin but he seems pretty stupid”.
Men do not care if the 25 year old is smart. They don’t want her to talk. They just want her to be sexy.
What men and women want and need are galaxies apart. When men watch strippers and pole dancers they actually want them. When most (not all) women watch the Chippendale dudes it’s fun and silly, but we don’t actually want to carry those young men home. They have rock hard abs but they still don’t meet our requirements.
I’m going to say it and you can howl if you want. Most men don’t actually care if a sexual partner is smart. Yes they do want smart friends to talk to and they want their wives and girl friends to be smart if they plan on keeping them around for more than a couple of years…but hot is better than smart for most.
An ugly girl who is smart will not get asked out much.
A hot girl who is stupid is busy all the time.
“Men just need a place and women need a reason”.
I can’t beat guys up too much for being focused on youth and hot, because they are genetically programed to be that way. It’s actually not their fault.
I get it, but it still pisses me off. Happy Valentine’s Day. Go wink at an old lady and make her day or leave me a comment, that’ll make my day. firstname.lastname@example.org
We grew up in Hot Springs, Arkansas and my family had a lovely 1960s condo on Lake Hamilton.
At seven, Liz was our beautiful blond brutal dictator, I was the goofy looking six year old and Mikey was a scrawny tough ass five year old who would bow up on a bus or throw down with a bear. He was too stupid or stubborn to realize he only weighed fifty pounds. Mike thought he was Tarzan and Cold Stone Steve Austin rolled up in a taco with hot sauce. At five he was a hard core bad ass.
We were young but together we were formidable and frightening, full of really bad ideas and virtually unsupervised for weeks at a time. At my house the only adult who ever attempted to keep an eye on us was Louella, our friend and maid for more than thirty years.
There was a lady who lived at the end of our boardwalk named Mrs. Williams. Every day at four she would lovingly feed all her “pet” fish in Lake Hamilton. She tossed out hand fulls of corn and bread then watched as schools of fish appeared. There was one massive, elephant sized catfish who showed up every afternoon, named Big Willie. He was nearly as long as a baseball bat and as fat as a foot ball. This guy was beautiful. And Mrs. Williams loved him.
Liz, Mike and I were not allowed to fish anywhere near her end of the boardwalk but one day…Mrs Williams went on vacation.
Brown and barefooted, wearing nothing but groovy swimsuits, we hauled our fishing gear to the end of the boardwalk ten minutes after Mrs. Williams backed out of her parking spot.
Mikey bounced up and down on his skinny little legs as we watched the fish circling under the dark water. We threw in a hand full of corn and the fish went crazy. Lake Hamilton boiled with fishy action.
Liz packed a piece of hot dog and a bread ball onto a hook and dropped the line in. Mikey and I were lying on our bellies, staring at the fish. Then it happened. The line went taunt and Liz sarted saying, “Holy crap, holy crap.” Reeling hard, Liz leaned back and Mike and I jumped to our feet. Instantly,we realized she had hooked Big Willie on the first try. It was unbelievable She cranked on the reel and we saw the massive gray fish rise to the surface then pull back on the line. The reel screamed. We were no match with out K-Mart Rod and Reel. Big Willie pulled line like a yo-yo. Liz screamed at Mike, “get the net, Michael Clark get the damn net!”
The net was taller than Mike, but he snatched it up then stared into the water, waiting for his chance to scoop up Big Willie. Liz made an executive decision, we couldn’t wait any longer. She shoved five year old Mikey into the lake and started screaming at him. “Scoop him up, Mike. Catch him.”
I helped her hold the rod as the fish tried to get away from Mike, his net and kicking legs. There was fishing line, splashing, screaming and then suddenly Mike yelled, “He’s in!”
Tiny Mike tried to hold the net up as he treaded water but the fish weighed too much. Liz dropped the pole and stretched out on the boardwalk to grab the net. She pulled the net and the gigantic fish onto the hot wooden planks while I helped 50 pound Mike out of the water.
Liz had Big Willie, flopping furiously in the net. His catfish mouth gaped open, he looked so angry and slimy. His whiskers were at least three inches long and we had no idea what to do with the monster. The hook poked though his cheek and the bread ball was still on the hook in his mouth. His eyes rolled in our direction and we all stepped back.
Liz pushed Mike. “Get the hook out.”
“Hell no. He’ll get me .”
“You get the hook out,” I said to Liz. She looked at me as thought I was made of cat poop and stupid. Then she picked up the net, we had to help her. And we walked toward my condo as Big Willie flopped.
Finally, we got Willie back to the condo. Liz looked at me. “We can put him in the bathtub right? He’ll be ok.”
I nodded stupidly.
Then we smuggled Big Willie into the condo, we made it upstairs to the bathroom. I filled the bathtub with cold water and Mike leaned against the door so Louella couldnt’ push it open Finally, it was full. Mikey held the net as Liz and I raised the fishing pole Big Willie was still attached to.
We got him out of the net into the gleaming white tub. And for a little while, we all held the pole and watched him swim slowly around the tub. The hook was poking out of his face and he was tethered to our pole but he didnt seem to mind
Ginally Mike stepped into the bathtub and started laughing as the big fish swam past his leg. Liz and I got in too and we giggled like maniacs as Big Willie swam between and past our legs. Liz had the reel, then let line out, we picked up our feet so the line wouldn’t get tangled. We laughed so hard Mike started peeing in the tub. The we laughed even harder…until Louella walked in.
It was terrible. She screamed until my Mom arrived. We had to take Willie to the lake, cut the line and let him go. Then I got a spanking and I’m pretty sure I could hear Liz and Mike laughing in the next room.
It was a great day
Tags: AR, catfish, cousins, Hot Springs, Lake Hamilton, Lix McDaniel, Louella, Mike McDaniel
When I was little my best friends were Louella, Liz and Mike, my cousins. Actually they were my only friends. When Liz was seven, I was six and Mike was five we caught a giant catfish named Big Willie. We didn’t know what to do with him so we dragged him back to my condo and put the bastard in the bathtub. We let that 10 pound monster swim between ournaked legs until Louella, our friend and maid, walked in and started screaming. Then we all got spanked.
I was jealous because Liz and Mike had a pet pig named Charlie Brown. he was a really big pig, not one of these hot dog size pygmie things. Liz would climb on board the 300 pound beast, Mike would pull his tail and off they would go. Both Liz and Charlie Brown screaming across the pasture.
Mike was a tiny kid who looked like a redneck made man in the mafia. And we would fight, I mean really fight, like midget wrestlers, all the time. Once, when were were five and six, we climbed the tree in front of Mike’s house. Then we started arguing. What could we argue about in a tree? I don’t remember but something got us going.
Eventually, we started throwing punches and trying to choke each other, on a branch… in a tree. We were screaming and our teenaged brothers, Ricky, Bimbo, Granger and Jack came out to see what we were doing.
They started laughing at the Arkansas spider monkeys fighting in a tree. Then Mike threw a haymaker and we both fell, ten or twelve fee,t onto our backs. The fall knocked the wind out of us both and we lay there, under the tree, thinking we would die. Gasping, flopping and clutching our bony chests. Of course that only made the brothers laugh harder. (I’m pretty sure there was beer involved)
Cousins, we all grew up in the same, insane universe. We understood everything about each other without speaking, because we were all born and cut from the same rough, misshapen fabric. We were family. We had the same blood and nothing is more profound. Time and history doen’t matter if you are cousins because you share the same DNA and history, they are woven together, like an Indian braid, inseparable and unbreakable.
Twenty or thirty years passed and I hadn’t seen or spoken to Mikey and Lizzy but the moment we were together again, the moment our voices touched, we were bonded, thick as thieves, intertwined by a blood line so powerful and unique no one else could understand or interfere. If Mikey or Liz called me today and asked me to drive 3,000 miles to pick them up in a truck stop there is nothing that could stop me. Because it’s been so long I might not recognize them when I got there but we would find each other and do what needed to be done.
We are family and together we will walk to the magnificent , golden gates of Heaven or the torterous fiery gates of Hell… together. Our past is the same and our future will be too. Because we are family, we are cousins and we will always be together. Always.
Tags: Arkansas, cousins, family, Hot Springs, Louella, McDaniel
Teenagers, they are rude and selfish, withdrawn and distant. That’s what adults think all the time. It seems kids have lost the ability to carry on a conversation. Or, maybe they can, but they just don’t want to make the effort. So they text and hide behind long swoopy hair when surrounded by adults.
This makes us think they are dysfunctional and possibly stupid. Futhermore, we become worried about the future of our country. If our children can’t speak intelligently what will happen to America? Will incoherent skate board punks fill the Senate?
First, you have to remember, every generation of teenagers has been seen as troublesome, dangerous and rude. I can still see my brother, with his long swoopy hair and shredded jeans as he headed off to Woodstock. Why would he want to talk to adults, they were so old.
I was trying to explain this situation to my 15 year old, Lexie, (who is actually very good at talking to almost anyone with ears) when I realized, most teenagers are actually pretty decent creatures. They simply don’t know what to say to adults who are not part of their world. They can’t talk to them about music or school or most movies.
After “how are you?” kids are at a loss, things get quiet and awkward so they start looking at the cell phones. A fourteen year old boy can’t say so a fifty year old man, “How’s your wife? How are the kids, has your 401K tanked yet?” So, what’s he supposed to do?
If a kid or teenager is stuck at a table or in an office with an adult, I came up with three questions they can ask and the old person will think they are wonderful, insightful and smart.
1. “So, what profession are you in?” “What do you do for a living?” Ask about work.
2.”Oh, you’re a teacher(cop, architect, ditch digger) “What’s your favorite part of being a….(dentist, rodeo clown, CPA, hair band lead singer)?
3. “What did you do before you were a …..(porn star, lawyer, boogie board champion)?
Three questions, that’s all they have to remember and adults will think they are brilliant and destined for greatness.
And guess what? Lex tried my system with a 45 year old man I introduced her to at a non-profit event and discovered he was an interesting guy!
He was just really really old.
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Tags: conversation, long hair, manners, parenting, teens, texting
In 1968 I was a scrawny little girl, with buck teeth and big ears. But my family had a lovely two story condo on the lake in Hot Springs, AR. We had money.
My grandmother, Bubba, had an elegant colonial house in town. Louella worked for Bubba, along with another black lady, Iolla, for years and years. But when I was born, my mother’s 3r,d child Louella came to work for us, full time. Thank God.
Every afternoon when I got off the bus with my Monkees lunch box, Louella was there, waiting and smiling, in her crisp white dress and white hose. Because she was a very dark woman, almost black, the contrast was beautiful to me.
Loulla always had a peeled apple and a vanilla cupcake on the kitchen counter waiting for me as a snack when I got home. I would eat happily, while she took her lunch and watched Let’s Make a Deal with Bob Barker. Then I would put my head in her lap. She was a large soft woman, and I would take a little nap with my head on her thigh. She had wonderful soft skin, except for her hands and they were like leather and always smelled of bleach. Louella would sa,, “Miss Pooh, I think I’m just your pillow”.
Years later I realized she was my cushion.
I was a squirrely, funny looking little girl and didn’t have many friends. But Louella was always there for me and we had a grand time singing and cracking jokes. There were a few jobs Luella really hated, like cleaning the kitty little pan. She would pay me a nickel a week to do that for her.
When I was six years old I started riding the bus to the Piggly Wiggly with Louella on Wednesday afternoons. Sometimes, if it was raining, she would call a cab. Once in the store, I would happily trot behind her or hold her callused hand, jabbering away. If I behaved she would let me spend my nickel so I could get something from the gumball machine.
One day I was stunned to find a magnificent shiny new machine that didn’t take nickels. It required a quarter and in return I would get some beautiful jewelry or the biggest bouncy ball I’d ever seen. I asked Louella for a different coin but she said “no”, spending that kind of money on a gum ball machine was wasteful.
I pouted all the way home and that made her laugh.
But I had a plan. My 13 year old brother collected coins, all kinds of coins and he kept the in special books. I didn’t have a quarter but I figured I could get one, or something kind of like a quarter, out of one of those books.
Generally, when Louella vacuumed I went along with her and pushed the vacuum on my hands and knees just for fun but that Monday I waited until Louella was downstairs vacuuming then I snuck into Jack’s room and snatched a coin I was sure would work in the wonderful new gum ball machine.
Well the plan did not go well. Louella and I went to Piggly Wiggly the next week and the coin, which turned out to be a very rare 100 year old coin, got stuck in the machine, jammed it up. I lost the rare coin, and I did not get my giant bouncy ball. So once again I pouted all the way home.
Before we opened the front door I could hear my brother, Jack, screaming. “She’s such a little thief Mom. She took that coin and you know it Do you know how much I paid for that? Do you remember how long it took me to find one.”
Louella looked down at me. I was frozen in fear. “Go on Miss Pooh, open the door.”
I shook my head.
“Baby girl, you gotta go on in, might as well open the door”. I knew she was right.
I pushed the door open and could smell the anger in the house. My mother was sitting on the couch smoking a cigarette. She was mad. “Diana Ross McDaniel, get down here.”
I remember taking tiny little steps. She exhaled and smoke swirled around her head. “Did you steal Jack’s coin?”
I couldn’t speak. Tears rolled down my cheeks and I started shaking. I had to pea. I heard Louella in the kitchen putting away groceries.
“Did you?” She yelled.
Finally, I was able to nod my head.
“Where is it?”
“At the store?”
“What store damn it?” she roared
“I tried to use it in the new gumball machine at Piggly Wiggle.”
“Oh hells bells, you lost a 30 dollar coin in a God damn gumball machine?”
She yelled at me for what seemed like hours, then stopped suddenly, “Louella go up stairs and get me a brush.”
“Why?” I said pathetically. “Does my hair need brushing?”
“Never mind Louella, Pooh, you go get me my brush, right now.”
“Yes ma’am” I whispered then set off upstairs. I took my time, hoping mom would forget. Jack glared at me then slammed his bed room door.
When I appeared in the living room again with the tortoise shell brush she said, “Get over here right now, lean over this couch.” Her eyes look hot and black.
“Momma, can you make Louella come out of the kitchen? Please.”
“Why?” she barked as she stubbed out her cigarette in a heavy glass ashtray.
“Cause she won’t let you beat me to death.”
So poor Louella stood in the living room, tears rolling down her dark cheeks, while I got ten licks with the hair brush. Then she walked me back upstairs and washed my face. My but felt as though it had been scalded. She sat down on the edge of my bed and without saying a word I put my head in her lap. And she stayed there until fell asleep.
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Comments OffTags: arkasnas, diana hapo, Hot Springs, Louella Thomas, piggly wiggly, race, south, spa city