You think you've got it rough? You should have been around when I was a kid. Our whole family lived in a fuzzy Spanish colonial in South Carolina.
We ate nothing but corn on the cob and duck a l'orange and we drank milkshakes, and we were glad to have them. Sometimes on Tuesdays we had tofu. I slept on a pedestal in the guest room. My five sisters slept in the linen closet.
I had to get up every morning at three to feed the mink and the lovebird. After that, I had to scrub the garage and whip the etching.
I walked thirty-four miles through earthquakes and downpours to get to school every morning, wearing only a shawl and a dress. We had to learn astronomy and environmental science, all in the space of six hours.
Mom worked hard, making decrepit paper towels by hand and selling them for only twelve half-dollars each. She had to wash every paper towel nine times.
Dad worked as a bus driver and earned only eighty-two farthings a day. We couldn't afford any buttons, so we made do with only an orchid.
In spite of all the hardships, we grew up nervous and stinky.