From under my hat (1952)

I learned to work hard while I was growing up in Altoona, and I acquired a standard of behavior from my mother and her twin brother, Uncle John. I didn't like my father much, reasoning that if he hadn't burdened my mother with such a raft of children (she had nine) and so much work she'd have had time to give me the affection I craved. When the neighbors' children went to bed, their mothers tucked them in, told them fairy stories, taught them songs, and kissed them good night. My mother never had time to tuck me in. I blamed it on my father's selfishness. Mother had dark wavy hair and eyes like woodland pools. No matter how hot and tired she got working around the house, her hair always looked as though it had been marcelled within the last half hour. She didn't have to mention it if you'd done anything wrong; just a look from those eyes was enough. I was three when I became aware of my grandfather, a stingy man. Grandmother bore him twelve children. He could afford them, being the owner of twenty-two farms. He rode around from farm to farm on a beautiful gray mare, like some overseer of the South, afraid he wouldn't get all the work the human body could give. He liked my mother's cooking and was always coming around to get more of it. But he took a hard attitude toward the young. The first time I remember noticing him was when he looked around at us all and said scornfully, "You children aren't worth your salt!" What did he want of a three-yearold? Blood? Well, he got it. I think the only time in my life I've been afraid, he was the cause. Hiding from him one day, I squeezed myself into a ten-gallon crock. It broke and I cut my wrist. Anyway, it created a dramatic diversion; my grandfather was forgotten while Mother stanched my blood. 21