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many flowers growing almost as in May. Still got begonias and butterfly weed and cannas blooming along with dahlia, big wide dahlias, and delphiniums and Stokes' asters and chrysanthemums. None of the herbs seem to know it's close to winter yet and with some kind of herb planted at every crossway, turn, or corner of the garden, it's a pleasure just to walk through and brush by 'em.
    I guess my garden is the thing I'm most proud of.
    Other than seeing my girls do so well, of course.
    I also taught them how to be ladies. How to do the things that women need to know how to do in this world. How to sew and clean and take care of a house. Make a beautiful centerpiece out of whatever was growing in the nearest yard or held. Even as a little thing, the baby Annie Ruth could step outdoors and come back in with an armful of fall leaves and branches and make a right nice arrangement. I taught 'em that.
    They took care of that house a whole lot better than I ever did or ever wanted to. And when things needed taking care of personally, Betty could handle those white bastards down at the gas company or those hinkty folks at Davison's Department Store as well as lots of grown women. Finally even told that old cracker who used to sit in the lobby entrance from store opening to closing to kiss her black ass when she called her names once too often. I was proud of her for that. I probably told her so.
    I even taught them to take care of themselves. Many's the time I'd make sure they bought Ivory liquid or Palmolive liquid so when Emily washed dishes she didn't ruin those pretty hands of hers.
She does have the prettiest hands. And it was me, nobody else, who taught those three girls how to take care of what they've been given.
    How many girls their age know so much about moisturizing their skin as they do? I never let 'em use soap on their faces and made sure there was always some Pond's cold cream in the house. How many other mothers can say the same?
    I never was one for lying. At least, I never was after things changed, so I'd tell them right out what their best attributes were and what failings they didn't even need to waste their time on trying to improve.
    I didn't coddle 'em and cuddle 'em to death the way some mothers do. I pushed 'em out there to find out what they was best in. That's how you learn things, by getting on out there and living. They found their strengths by the best way anybody could: by living them.
    From the looks of this here dress they bought to bury me in—went out to the mall and bought it out at Rubinstein's, too, know they paid good money for it, the price tag is probably around here somewhere—you can tell they holds a grudge for something though. What in God's name would possess them to go out and spend good money on this navy-blue monstrosity—and they know navy blue is not my color, they know how pretty I look in pastels—when I had all those beautiful bed jackets at home. Hell, some of my old stuff might be a bit outdated, since I ain't had any need for street clothes in a number of years, but even it look better than this shit. They ought to be ashamed. Knowing how those girls love beautiful clothes, I can't believe they weren't trying to say something by picking this thing for me to lie in for all eternity. Them girls got ugly ways about 'em sometimes.
    Well, at least it ain't cheap. I never could wear cheap clothes.
You know, some people can wear cheap clothes and look right nice in 'em. I never could. If I ever put on anything cheap, it would stand away from my body like paper-doll clothes and just scream,
"Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!"
My girls couldn't either, wear anything cheap. When they was teenagers, they'd try to imitate they little friends and go down to Lerner's or one of them shops and get some outfit or other. It would be cute in the bag, but as soon as they put it on, it would start screaming,
"Cheap! Cheap! Cheap!"
and they'd have to give it to one of their cheap-clothes-wearing