The Turnip Junction Community Center looked like an Oklahoma cotton field just before harvest. Puffy crowns of white topped the sun-weathered faces of elderly citizens filling three rows of molded plastic chairs. Toenail clipping day never failed to bring out a crowd.
Grammy surveyed the waiting room. She placed her gnarled hands at the thick waist of her polyester going-to-town muumuu, a shapeless pullover dress covered with daisies.
“Belinda Mae, I told you to drive faster.” Grammy punched my arm, just below the elbow because she’s too stooped over to reach higher. Even so, she still packs a wallop. “Now I’ll be waiting for hours.”
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