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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required She was a crazy old coot of a woman; most of us made fun of her. Not in front of her face, we were socialized. But behind her back, watch out. Story was that she lived with goats. She never went anywhere without one. Her name was Florence. She wore her hair helter skelter, and men’s clothes. Sometimes a dress over her bibbed overalls, but not often. She was a hoarder. No one can get through her house, I was told. I was eight, and a fast believer. We followed her down the block as she went from one house to her farm. She told us stories about hangings and killing snakes. She talked non-stop; as if we were not there at all. We began to adore her. One day our mother said we were going to have a birthday party for Oney. Oney? An older lady who lived with Florence. She was going to be eighty. Our mother baked a cake and we marched up to Florence’s house. We had never been inside, but I had heard about the stacks and smells. The door was opened, and it was nothing like I had heard. It was gorgeous. There was Victorian furniture, dainty china, pretty trinkets and knickknacks. I never believed bad gossip about Florence again; for now I knew the truth. She was a dainty lady who worked tirelessly, taking care of her sister Oney. At the age of eight, I resolved to get to know people one at a time.
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