This is a story told to me by my mother a couple years ago. Uncanny how Mom's remember things like this. When I was 4 years old my Dad, as dads in those days did, decided that I was ready for a haircut. The usual barber my Dad frequented in our small rural town in Missouri (Pronounced Missoura by actual Missourians) was not available so he took me to the other barber. Well....... the other barber was an old nigger. Dammit, Dad. BIG MISTAKE! So the way Mom tells it, which isn't surprising since I can't remember my Dad ever having anything nice to say about niggers, I screamed NIGGER! and ran out the door screaming. Dad found me later under a table at the doughnut shop about 3 buildings down. Dad never took me there again, especially after my Grandmother seriously ripped him a new one. And about my grandmother- She was an old Virginia mountain woman, born in 1898 who chewed Days O Work tobacco, Levi Garret snuff in the little red and white can and drank corn whiskey out of an old stone jug, and carried a pistol in the pocket of her bathrobe. And NO I'm not making that up, it's God's honest truth, that's my Grandmother. We called her Nanny. One time she went to KC with me and Dad and saw a nigger walking around with his coal burner- she came completely unglued. She said "That niggra ought to be took out and hung and that white girl whipped to an inch of her life." She was quite a lady, my grandmother...... Anyways, I hope you all enjoy the recounting of a bit of my history.