E arly on the morning of August 19, 1946, I was born under a clear sky after a violent summer storm to a widowed mother in the Julia Chester Hospital in Hope, a town of about six thousand in southwest Arkansas, thirty-three miles east of the Texas border at Texarkana. My mother named me William Jefferson Blythe III after my father, William Jefferson Blythe Jr., one of nine children of a poor farmer in Sherman,
Texas, who died when my father was seventeen. According to his sisters
英文SEO, my father always tried to take care of them, and he grew up to be a handsome, hardworking
沈阳SEO, fun-loving man. He met my mother at Tri-State Hospital in Shreveport, Louisiana, in 1943, when she was training to be a nurse. Many times when I was growing up
外贸SEO, I asked Mother to tell me the story of their meeting, courting, and marriage. He brought a date with some kind of medical emergency into the ward where she was working, and they talked and flirted while the other woman was being treated.
On his way out of the hospital, he touched the finger on which she was wearing her boyfriends ring and asked her if she was married. She stammered noshe was single. The next day he sent the other woman flowers and her heart sank. Then he called Mother for a date, explaining that he always sent flowers when he ended a relationship.
I n the summer after my first-grade year
SEO, Daddy decided he wanted to go home to Hot Springs. He sold the Buick dealership and moved us to a four hundredacre farm out on Wildcat Road a few miles west of the city. It had cattle, sheep, and goats.
