A mixed bag of memorabilia from the drawer of my grandmother's treadle sewing machine . . . a pair of pince nez, snapshots of her and my grandfather during their courting days, and a typescript of a lecture on sexual intercourse. (Very positive and using proper terminology.) And how I would like to know the story behind the lecture. My grandmother's mother had died well before my grandmother married -- did her father give this to her? A friend? Did she acquire it on her own? It will have to remain a mystery, alas.
This same grandmother was a Sunday School teacher -- this document must have been from that time. (The kid gloves are much later.)
And in the same drawer, a letter from my seven year old self to my grandmother's sister (Mamie) in Troy, Alabama. I love how I manage to fill both sides of the page in spite of not having much to say. (Skipper is my brother -- I don't know what was wrong with him.)
Oops! There goes the clock! Bong! Bong! Bong! Bong! Soon it will be time for me to leave to teach my class. I will be sure to tell them that it's noticeable when writers are just filling space with nothing much to say . . .
