My mother has reminded me that though I may not recall being coached in personal hygiene, she did hand sew my
1st grade munchkin costume, attend all my little league games, and bail me out of jail my junior year in high school without telling my father about it.  That I never wanted for anything but still managed to feel neglected is only one of the curious aspects of my childhood. There are many others, as I’m sure there are for most people. It probably has to do with being a spoiled brat.

My family moved to Houston from Philadelphia when I was five years old. My father thinks that was the first
mistake our family made. “I never should have taken your mother away from her family,” he told me one night as we sat drinking wine on my back porch. It was summer and the air was thick with black flies that seem to permeate the air at
that time of year. They kept dive-bombing into my glass like tiny black kamikazes. I hate those flies – even more than I hated that guy who gave me those bullets.