July, 1985

Pa don't like who I'm becoming. He made me meet with the preacher's wife today. She don't seem too bad. She smells like old corn husks and her glasses are glued to the end of her long nose.

She told me to start a journal. Write down my thoughts. Write down my prayers. She said a lady don't get anywhere if she lets her thoughts out of her mouth and into the open. But if we don't put our thoughts anywhere we'll explode. So here I am, talking to myself. Seeing if it works.

Two days ago was my sixteenth birthday. I'm an official lady now. I wanted one thing. A Remington 700. The sweet, beautiful, bolt action slug flinger. And I wanted to go hunting with Pa.

He got me my coming out dress instead.

I've been working on my debutante etiquette. This is the year I'm introduced to society. Long time ago Pa said if I finished my debutante studies by sixteen, he would let me go hunting with him and the boys.

Seems like he forgot he said that.

I didn't.

I yelled at him.

Lost my cool.

He told me, a lady don't yell and how could I be so ungrateful? That didn't help. I screamed more and more. He got quiet. He kept a strong face, but I could tell I hurt his feelings. So I ran out of the house.

Ma found me in her garden. It's a place we can both go to get away from dad sometimes. He don't go in there. She didn't say nothing. Just scratched my back and pulled out a cardboard box she had hid underneath the standing herbs. I couldn't believe it. A brand new Remington 700. How did she do it? Pa don't let her touch the money without him knowing.

She didn't say a word.

Just winked at me.

Sometimes me and my ma can talk without speaking. She didn't forget neither. She remembered my Pa's promise. And it was our little secret. He couldn't know.

I tried it yesterday. I'm a real good shot. Real good. I'm sure I could outshoot the boys, maybe even Pa. I knew I would be. I use the pellet shooter on squirrels and possums and coons and such.

But the Remington sang.

It bucked way more than the pellet gun, but I was ready for it. It's like we were dancing. Way better than dancing with those short, quaffed debutante boys.

So I guess, God, thank you for my momma. Thank you for the preacher's wife. I kinda like this writin' thing. It helps. Thank you for my new Remington beauty. Thank you for my little brothers and keep 'em safe. Help fix Pa's hurt feelings help me to forgive Pa and appreciate the dress. It is pretty I guess.

Piper.