Excerpt from the novel Ain’t We Got Fun
Everyone said that Lucille was her daddy Jack’s child, right down to the ground. She had his curly hair, his little bandy legs, his temperament that flashed from rare glee to rage. She had a mind like her granddad’s, though. The daily, fretful crying, as maddening as a low wind, was her answer to his long angers. The ferocious greed she aimed at anything she could grasp—my hair, most often, or her grandmama’s glass-topped hat pin—that came from Pa, too. She screamed when we pulled things out of her hand, and I thought of him. Sometimes the screaming went straight through the night.
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