By H. E. Casson
My mother did not waste smiles or hugs. At the fair, she sought out the traveling preacher rather than the balloon-sculpting clown. I can’t say what compelled her to spend a whole dollar to swing the gaudily painted wooden hammer, but she hollered like a sailor when that bell rang and a light shone behind the words Strongest In The World!
The plush prize was a bright pink dog, half as tall as me. Every day, when she made her bed, she sat him square in the middle. “The strongest in the world,” she’d whisper, and pat his head.
H. E. Casson writes “because being understood is a complicated thing, and sometimes it requires time, editing and a re-write or two.”