Before dinner, Big Momma held court.  She read every word of Little Momma’s note, attaching the offense to each child’s bottom with her eyes.  Dinner would be great, the best food this side of heaven.  I tried to eat real slow.  Then Big Momma would lecture us about making Little Momma’s life so difficult, causing us to burst into tears.  While we were still sniffling, one of us would be told to retrieve Dr. Black Pill, a horrible instrument of torture with a handle and five leather straps.  One by one if our names were listed, we went into the bedroom.  It was hard to go get Dr. Black Pill.  My lips would be poked out and the rest of my face would fall into a frown.  But I didn’t dare say I couldn’t find it or make some other excuse.  Then my fate would be even worse.  Discipline, respect, and doing what you were told were ways of life.

I was always last.  The second Big Momma looked my way, I’d start to hollering and take off running.  I screamed long and hard before she even touched me, like it was Judgement Day.  I went over the bed, and around the furniture, and back under the bed until Dr. Black Pill caught up with me.  Lord, she had a time with me.  When I felt the whelp of Dr. Black Pill, my screams were loud enough to convince anyone within earshot that my own grandma was trying to kill me.  If anyone from outside ever did hear me, they never came to my rescue, not even once.  My grandmother would not have been the least bit surprised that I got involved in the theater.   I gave her quite a few dramatic performances.

       While our butts still burned, grandma sat us down for lemonade and cake.  If we resisted through our sniffles, she’d give us a look with hunched eyebrows and threaten to give us something to cry about.  So we ate, slow and full of resentment, but we ate.