From One Writer’s Beginnings…

My mother’s hat rode in the back with the children, suspended over our heads in a pillowcase.  It rose and fell with us when we hit the bumps, thumped our heads and batted our ears in an authoritative manner when sometimes we bounced as high as the ceiling.  This was 1917 or 1918; a lady couldn’t expect to travel without a hat.

Classic.  Perhaps Aretha has nothing on Eudora’s mama.

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