As the years scatter behind me like a box of spilled Cheerios, I reflect on the blessings of the storytellers I have known.
When I was five, Aunt Ozelle kept me so Mama could work in a sewing plant. At five minutes to 12 every day, she called me to lunch. She was a woman of admirable mountain discipline.
A small radio hung perilously on the back of her stove so when she was ...
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