Christmas morning, southeastern New Mexico, 1968. Vicki knocked on our door at 8 o’clock sharp. Our mother let her in, just like she had done the previous year. Alice, Jean and I watched in irritation as Vicki crawled through our holiday bootie, nice things like Barbie dolls and pogo sticks and new sets of water paints. Vickie “ooh’d” and “aah’d” over the gifting wisdom of our parents as she sat down to play with our wonders.

My sisters and I didn’t like Vicki touching our stuff because she was a grubby 9-year-old waif who ran around our neighborhood looking so poor that it embarrassed us. She stank of sweaty feet and bean-farts and we were sure that she was the one who’d spread lice through Monterrey Elementary last spring. Above her sooty face sat tangled strands of thin red hair and her blue jeans were shiny from weeks of compressed dirt.

Throughout the year, Vicki would wander up to our end of the long street, but she had no friends there except for our mother, who, upon catching a glimpse of her standing alone on the curb, would insist that one of us play with her. As I was the youngest in my family and Vicki’s age, I was made to do the unfortunate deed. Continue Reading