Dot was cooking pork chops and when turning one over she dropped it onto the floor. She threw the fork she was turning it with, across the room. Her mother took her to the hospital.
This was the magical October of 1960. You went into the hospital 3 days before you even went into labor, got knocked out with twilight sleep (which in retrospect is probably best as I weighed almost 10 pounds) and went home a week later when a baby who had spent her first week of life hamming it up in the nursery.
Apparently, my Irish/White Trash gene kicked in early. As seen in this early photograph of me anticipating the attacking of the cake, which would surely begin any second.
Here I am at two, a little more sophisticated and doing a Bette Davis impersonation.
Upon further research into my birth to 2 year picture trail, I discovered I could be quite the “pissed off baby”.
I learned to chill at any early age. Kick back, enjoy a tudge of milk, and watch Beverly Hillbillies.
Enjoy a smoke,
oh what? You’re not supposed to eat it?
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