I was in love at twenty-three years old. With a red Mustang. Palmetto Ford in Charleston had the one I wanted. I drove a white Fifth Avenue Chrysler that broke down inappropriately in Church’s Chicken parking lots or at the Piggly Wiggly. With its terrible turning...
As a kid I hated getting criticism—it would fill me with shame because I wanted to be perfect and I usually knew exactly what I had done to deserve that criticism. I hated sending thank-yous to my grandma and aunt in France (I’m half French on my mom’s side) after...
