Florence But Not Italy
I never associated weather-faced seventy-year-old Florence with Italy until today, sixty years later.
Florence’s hands moved as fast as she talked. She was usually accompanied by her favorite goat,
Gladys, who knew when to bleat and when to keep still. Florence’s mouth was always going;
she had a reputation she had to maintain. We neighbor kids either loved or hated her;
there was no in between. She looked like a wizened witch, wearing men’s overalls,
grimy shirts, and that silly hat with the goat bite out of the brim.
My sister was terrified of her at first, but I despised her until I was forced to know her
by my insistent mother. My initial aversion revised itself
into an eerie fascination which eventually bordered on Florence love.
She told the most entertaining gruesome macabre stories imaginable.
At ten, I remember hanging onto every word about three men who were hanged,
a twelve foot garden snake, and other deplorable things I was not allowed to hear
anywhere else. This was the sixties, when TV was tame, all cowboys and Indians.
So I was grateful to have Florence. Here she is now, walking Gladys. Have to go.
More later.
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