He (Grandad) seldom whipped me. On the other hand, more often, Grandma, or Mom as I called her, pulled a switch from a bush in the yard and administered corporal punishment. My grandparents loved me, and I loved them, but the flexible whips she used from the bush burned my bottom. My city-dwelling parents, Gatha and Jennings, would come once or twice a year to visit. I thought they were beautiful but just like movie stars, “beautiful to look at, but don’t touch.” Mother wore lipstick and smelled like flowers. I was four or five years old before I really understood who they were. About that time, Mother tried to change my diet, by trying to get me to eat tuna fish, pasta, and other things. If Mom didn’t grow or have it, I didn’t want it. We never ate fish or pasta. Grandad had a 1938 Chevy pickup truck. It was painted a bright blue with black fenders. I remember Mother borrowing the truck, and taking me with her to visit Sybil, her sister. I was maybe three or four, but the memory is still in my mind of me taking a nap in the truck, with my head lying on her right leg as she moved it up and down using the gas pedal the brake, and the floor- mounted gear shift as she navigated the mountains. I knew Mother was a special woman because she wore clothes like city women wore in the pictures in the magazines, and she could drive a car, or in this case, even a truck. My Grandmother and Sybil never dressed like Mother, nor drove cars. Mother drove like she was born to do it, even if she scraped a gear occasionally.