Small towns small bits

Religion, such fun. If you remember, when I was 10, my mother and her four children were in Provo, Utah; while dad was in Thailand (and later Vietnam) fighting the good fight. Provo is Mormon central; in my school, we had some sort of drill team of which I was a member; my mother insisted that my denim skirt uniform not be below the knee. It was 1968; she insisted that my skirt be cute, and, heavens, a couple of inches above said knees. So... you get the idea.

Six months into my dad's overseas stint, he and mom met in Hawaii for two weeks. About three months later, she started showing. The mailman said "does your husband know?" Her four sisters stopped coming around. Visits from church members (essentially everyone who might help) dropped to nonexistent.

Mom just about didn't leave the house after that. The next door neighbors weren't mormon. How I wish I could remember their name. They'd take some number of us kids to the Country Club (extra exciting) and order us Shirley Temples. I'd come home and mom would be in bed with a migraine. I'd try to make dinner with what we had around the house. Actually, by this time, at 10, I'd been cooking for four years, so I could actually put dinner on the table.

I never forgave my aunts.