By Florence King
Confessions of a Failed Southern girl is Florence King's vintage memoir of her upbringing in an eccentric Southern kin, advised with the entire uproarious wit and gusto that has made her the most trendy writers within the kingdom. Florence can have been a unhappiness to her Granny, whose dream of rearing an ideal Southern woman may by no means be rather fulfilled. yet in the end, as Florence reminds us, "no subject which intercourse I went to mattress with, I by no means smoked at the street."
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Extra resources for Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady
I asked. “You can bring the boy to see me,” she said. My boy. “I like that boy,” she said. ” She plies him with biscuits, and watches him read on the floor. Some women melt around little boys. She did not give a damn that he did not look like us, or come to her in the usual way. He looks like my father’s people, dark-haired, handsome. How odd, he would look like him. “He’s spoiled,” I said. ” She harrumphed. It is her prerogative to spoil a boy. “He’s not real tough,” I said. “He don’t need to be,” she said.
I remember the antidote of icy water against my blistered skin, and the taste of mushy tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches, unwrapped from twice-used aluminum foil. I saw my first water moccasin here, and my first real girl, and being a child of the foot washers I have sometimes wondered if this was my Eden, and my serpent. If it was, I didn’t hold out any longer than that first poor fool did. ” Maybe we should have nailed up a sign—NO GIRLS ALLOWED—and lived out our lives here, to fight mean bulls from the safe side of a barbed-wire fence with a cape cut from a red tank top, and duel to the death with swords sliced off a weeping willow tree.
But by the time I regained what sense I had, I was driving car pool next to a ten-year-old boy who, for reasons I may never truly understand, believes I hung the moon. I guess it is natural that, in the company of the boy, I almost always think of my father. But if you add all the time I spent with Charles Bragg in the first six years he tore in and out of our lives, it comes to only a few months, not even one whole year. I remember him in fragments, because we left him too soon, and still not soon enough.