1977
She had just turned six when they moved to South Carolina. The older couple next door liked to call her over to their front porch to hear her Alabama accent. To have a noticeably Southern accent in Irmo, South Carolina showed how powerful Alabama DNA could be.
The wife was open and friendly, older than the girl's mother, but younger than her grandmother, just the age and disposition for a six-year-old to find cozy and unintimidating. The husband was wry and clever, but the the girl wouldn't realize that until she was older. It was hard to tell when he was joking or serious, but his peppering of questions made it hard to walk away.
On this day, he focused on politics. "Are you a Republican or a Democrat, Hank?" He leaned back in his aluminum patio chair with the yellow webbing, and raised a shiny can of Schlitz to his lips.
"My name is Pam" she corrected. Her "Pam" sounded like "Pay-um." Her voice was soft and rounded at edges, but clear and not at all timid.
"I know that. I've decided to call you Hank. You remind me of my cousin Hank, plus you know..." The previous day she had told him her parents had planned to name her Henry after her dad if she'd been born a boy. "My cousin Hank was redheaded like you; smart man. Maritime lawyer. You'd have liked him. He was a Blue Dog Democrat. You know what that is, Hank? You a Blue Dog, Hank?"
Pam looked over towards her yard where her dad was trimming a shrub. She leaned over to check the scab on her knee. Still there. Don't scratch, she reminded herself. "No sir. I'm a Republican. She didn't know what it meant exactly, but she knew that her parents were Republicans. Her dad looked very stressed whenever President Carter spoke on television.
"Okay, okay, Hank. That's just fine. It's practically the same thing these days anyway. It's just good you have an answer in case it comes up on the playground."
She had never heard anyone in kindergarten mention these words, but she listened with a serious expression. She tried to picturing Mr. Little on a playground, running around with his shiny can. He'd have to put it down to actually play anything. She couldn't picture him playing. She could picture him standing and directing a game.
The thing about Mr. Little was that he spoke to her like she was a grownup. All of her favorite grownups did.
1987
Daryl laughed silently his mouth shut and cheeks puffed out. He shook his head telling the circle to stop. They kept laughing and watched as he finally gave up and a puff of smoke shot out of his mouth. He started to cough, and everyone laughed harder. He laughed too. The smoke fell to the carpet between his new huaraches and settled in a ring of white. "I give up," he said.
"You got some powdered sugar on your shoes, Miami Vice," she said holding up another powdered donut. "Now who thinks they can do a full minute? Mr. Bradley?" she looked at their tenth grade Sunday school teacher and wiggled her eyebrows up and down. Her greatest regret in life, as of 1987, was that she couldn't raise only one eyebrow at a time like her cousin Jason."
"I don't think so, Counselor," said the teacher laughing. "Now let's talk about the Corinthians." They didn't though. They rarely did. It's why he was such a good teacher for highschoolers. He didn't preach at them. Instead, he gave them nicknames, and predicted what they'd be in the future. He called her counselor, and said she would make a great lawyer. He didn't give Daryl a nickname, but in eighth grade, Mrs. Jan had told him he was "A perfect summer palette, and looked great in teal." And he did.
It was a really nice church.