Copyright 1996 Pamela Morsi
For my daughter
One of God's favorites.
She will never read this book but she can recognize her name.
Althea Winsloe was hopping mad. Her face was red, her teeth were clenched, and she was marching down the well worn mountain path with such determined haste that she was completely unaware of the bright blue sky, the lush fall colors of the oak and ash and elm—the beautiful autumn day that surrounded her. Her anger was a typical consequence of her morning visit with her mother-in-law.
Beulah Winsloe had apparently made it her goal in life to frustrate, subjugate, and infuriate Althea. This morning Beulah had been in fine form.
Althea couldn't still her thoughts as her hands tightly clenched the handle of the woven market basket.
"That woman! That woman!" she whispered furiously to herself. "She will not run my life. I swear my soul upon it."