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Growing up in our house, books reigned supreme. My mother used to say the one thing she couldn’t stand to throw out, was a book. Other women might have an old pair of jeans from high school, stuffed in the back of the closet hoping someday to fit back into them. Momma had her favorite book, the cover tattered and held together with scotch tape, sitting on her night table. To this day, she re-reads that book at least once a year. It is Betty Smith’s, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

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Not only was Momma not upset when I chose to stay up all night to read a book, she would encourage it even if it was a school night. Daddy did not encourage this behavior as he didn't understand it. He believed that even if one of us kids stayed up all night reading, we still had to go to school the next day. Momma would've let us stay home and sleep it off, but not Daddy. He was as dependable and stern as they came and he loved us kids, but it was different kind of loving than Momma's. We needed both kinds, although we didn't always understand that.

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Daddy turned from Momma, not giving up hope about discovering her identity, to search for Wayne. He found his brother in the back of the basement, surrounded by girls. Wayne wasn't so much interested in the poetry or the causes associated with the demonstrations he attended. Wayne was girl crazy and many of the fairer sex attended these events. It only made sense to him to come and adopt the prevailing viewpoint if it meant he would get a date. Wayne also knew that some of these enlightened women were more adventurous than their traditional counterparts, which added to their appeal.

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Wayne and Horace walked through the parking lot to Horace's car. Wayne talked non-stop about his evening. "Did you see those two girls I was sitting with? I was about to make some progress when you walked in." "You're too young to be 'making progress' with women."

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Momma sat in the basement while poetry swirled around her but she wasn't attentive to it. Snatches of phrases would pass through her mind, holding her attention for an instant and then fade quickly away as the image of the boy she had met that night rose in front of them.

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Now this is the part of the story where things get really interesting. Momma had really taken a shine to Uncle Wayne, but she never expected him to gleam back. The difference in their ages was too broad. Daddy, of course, had fallen slap in love with Momma. Uncle Wayne had somehow sensed his brother's fancying Momma. Boys will be boys. There was competition brewing.

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Daddy was soon aware of Uncle Wayne's schemes for Momma. The high school called his mother the afternoon Wayne slipped out of his last class to go meet Momma. Daddy met Uncle Wayne in the front room as soon as he got home.

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Uncle Wayne never cut class early to visit Momma again. Within a couple of weeks, a strange sight was soon seen around town. Signs, written on old cardboard boxes began appearing on telephone and light polls. In itself, this is not such an odd occurrence in a small town. It's citizens would often use this method to advertise yard sales, lost dogs and church festivals. However, this signage was a bit out of the ordinary as it contained poetry, and not just any poetry...love poetry...

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Momma was an introvert, not given to being the center of attention. Her personality also did not lend itself to the idea of confrontation (unless she was out to save a library full of books). She would much rather "ignore" in the hopes of somehow passively deflecting the attention directed at her. Momma tried her best to avoid thinking about her secret admirer on the day his fleece was first so publicly laid out; but, her usual tactic would not serve Momma well in this situation.

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Momma made it through that night. Momma couldn't imagine what her neighbors were saying about her, she being someone who did not like to be the center of attention. It soon became obvious that she would not be able to just ignore this problem and have it fade into oblivion.

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Momma stayed in bed for most of the morning. This was highly unusual as Momma wasn't one to lay around lolly-gagging in bed all day. She might get up and dressed and retire to the couch with a book and a cup of tea, but that was somehow different in her mind than staying in her nightgown all day. Around noon, Momma's doorbell rang. She ignored it thinking it was probably one of the neighbors come to seek gossip disguised as a cup of sugar. A few minutes later, the doorbell rang again. Unfazed, Momma put her pillow over her head and sank deeper into her bed.

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