Granny Snob had a great 80th birthday party. All her children and most of her grandchildren, great-grandchildren and siblings showed up. My hair still smells like cigarettes, but hopefully I won’t die from sleeping on the family room couch while Granny lit up the Winston’s on the sun porch. Big Sis and I only had to endure one relative, Uncle Bubba, asking us when we were going to give our parents some grandchildren. Sis and I have come up with the reliable answer of “when you find us some husbands.”
Finding suitable husbands is a chronic problem for the beautiful and gregarious women of The Snob family. There are plenty of cute lil’ crumb-snatchers in our clan, but fathers and son-in-laws? Not so much.
Newport was Newport. It’s a small rural town of less than 7,000 people. It’s all soybean fields, a Riceland rice storage facility, a Wal-Mart and HUD housing. But I’m glad that my family lives in Newport and not Blacksville or Shoffner where my mother lived as a child. At least Newport has a McDonalds. Those two towns aren’t really towns. They’re dirt roads and forests with names.