When I was about three years old, my cousin Cathy’s parents moved their tiny egg-shaped trailer house under a big shade tree in our front yard. It was about as roomy as a nice bathtub. Like any right-thinking parents with two tiny children, they quickly moved into the house with our family, leaving us with four adults, a six-year-old, a three-year-old, an eighteen month old, and two newborns in a three bedroom house. Β The women cooked, cleaned and watched the kids together every day. Β Mother said it was a great time.
Pictured above are my cousin Cathy and me. Β She was much smaller though only a year younger than I. Β She also developed a nasty habit of biting. Β After I was bitten a few times, Mother told me to “bite her back.” Β She didn’t specify how hard.
The next time Cathy bit me, I bit her just below the eye and hung on. Β Cathy screamed and Mamas came running. Β Still I hung on. Β Mother told me to turn loose but I was too wrought up to hear her. Β She had to smack me to make me turn loose. Β It hurt my feelings. Β “You told me to bite her.”
“I didn’t tell you to bite a chunk out of her face.!”
Cathy had a bruise showing all my tooth prints. Β It turned from purple to green to yellow. Β I’m sorry, Cathy.
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