Lacey had freedom to dream. I didn't, not that it stopped me. I wanted to be a writer. Mamma knew this and kept my poems and dreams hidden in a shoebox underneath her bed with a secret clipping out of a magazine. Lacey's Daddy was a banker. She was an only child. Money was no obstacle and she knew where she was going in life: a beautician one day, airline stewardess the next, the day before that - a model. My Daddy was a farmer, boot-legger, and a devout Christian man, if that makes any sense at all. I am well aware that it doesn't.

He was hard working, shrewd and loved possessively. He had saddled me with the future of running the farm. I was – is - his only son. I have four sisters and he called us "The Herd". He had no aspirations for me, other than farming, nor did he care if I finished school. He never asked me what I wanted; it was just 'understood'. I felt hopelessly trapped.Lacey could do anything; of this I was sure. But me? I was just a knot-kneed, gangly boy with greasy hair and no pot to pee in. How would I ever break free from this? How could I make it in any other world? I did not know. But Lacey assured me we would break out to greener pastures one day; the two of us together. And I not only believed her, I dreamed of it every day of my life. I put all my trust in this plan. It was the only one I had. One day my Daddy overheard us talking about our dreams, and busting out. He was none too pleased.

***

"It's one fifteen now"! Lacey announced. I'm sick of that watch, I can tell you that. I scolded Lacey, "Oh for Pete's sake, shut up won't ya? At least say it like this: "It's a quarter past one, and half past a monkey's ass." I knew better than to say 'ass' but I was willing to sin, just a little, if it made Lacey laugh. It thrilled me when she laughed at my jokes.Mamma had given me a letter to mail, with a nickel and three pennies securely planted in my hand. "Leave the coins on top of the letter for Mr. Scott (as if I hadn't done this a thousand times already) and hurry," mamma said, "your Daddy will be coming up for his lunch any minute." "What is so fired-up important you are sending to a, uh, Professor Holland?" I asked, scouring the envelope for clues though none revealed themselves. "Mind your own knittin'," mamma hissed. "Now go!" Mamma sent one letter a week for years. I suspected she might be having an affair, but I never inquired again.