Growing up in Milton, my early years were a bit like a Truman Capote short story or a Tennessee Williams play. Think "Summer and Smoke," “The Glass Menagerie" or "Other Voices, Other Rooms." As many of you in Milton, or maybe even Laurel, may remember, my mother was a fabled schoolteacher who may have even taught you yourself! My parents moved to Milton right after World War II from Laurel, where my mother had found a teaching job and where my father lived.

Back then in Laurel, women schoolteachers could not be married, but in Milton, no such stricture was in place. My mother and father purchased – and my mother revamped – a 150-year-old ship captain's house on Chestnut Street. I say she took over the project because she always opined that my father was not materialistic and would probably have just resorted to renting if it had not been for her, the Great Motivator.

She had it readied when he returned from the great war in the Pacific. It was probably called Chestnut Street because there were very tall trees abutting the alley back then, but they aren't there now. They were probably chestnut or walnut trees, and they did appear in old photographs and drawings. I used to make little boats from the nuts and would float them in mud puddles.

Next door, across the alley that was named Manship Street, lived two remarkable Black ladies, Mrs. Effie Prettyman and her sister, and Mr. Handy Prettyman, who played a memorable and important role in my childhood. The two sisters had been schoolteachers, and Mr. Handy Prettyman ran an ice house in the building at the back of their property. I believe he had built the handsome brick house himself. He always sat outside on the stoop of the ice house in overalls and a floppy felt hat, hoping someone would need to purchase some ice.

After sailing my walnut-shell boats in the mud puddles facing their house, I would eye their door hopefully, working up the courage to knock on it and walk up the steps inside to their warm and welcoming kitchen. Once there, I would bask in the interest they showed in my early drawings and writings. My mother had always told me to be dignified and not become a pest, advice I decided not to follow. They would always serve me hot chocolate and cookies, and delight in my creations, saying someday I would become a great scientist. That did not come true; instead I became a useful curandero, then an artist, and now a writer.

Every summer back then, we vacationed at our cottage in Dewey Beach. On some hot, lazy days we would return to Milton to check on our house there on Chestnut Street. One such day, we returned amid the heavy perfume of the hollyhocks. We entered the hot, closed-up house to check things out. I had hidden a stash of candy behind my father's bookshelf before we left for the beach on Memorial Day and forgotten all about it. Now, I found it had melted into a sticky pool of lollipops and chocolate with some added Mary Janes – all swarming with ants! And, oh no, there was my mother standing above me! She hated messes and was mad. Boy, was I gonna get it!

Fortunately, Mrs. Effie Prettyman was knocking on our porch door with a big frosted pitcher (just like the one in the Kool-Aid ad) of iced tea with sliced peaches floating in it. The visit allowed my mother to cool off, so to speak, and Mrs. Effie was a lovely and welcoming sight to behold that I'll never forget.

Other childhood memories still remain with me to this day. My mother wrote, produced and directed a play for Milton School that was her magnum opus. It was called, "Song of the South," a musical about the Civil War. She did a lot of things in the name of school teaching in those days that might be frowned upon today. She read to her class Bible stories and Uncle Remus tales, among other things.

There were Southern belles in this musical wearing reams of ruffles in gray and yellow crepe paper churned from sewing machines. Since I was sort of a tomboy, she said I was not a Scarlett O'Hara type. Instead, I painted props, being the class artist. I was so tired from painting, I fell asleep in the school auditorium during a dress rehearsal with my head thrown back and my mouth open catching flies, and received an admonishment from my mother for sleeping through her magnum opus.

I thought, Good enough! I don't care! I'll create my own kind of magnum opus someday! One where I will be the writer, producer, director and star. Yet somehow that title, "Song of the South," ran through my mind for years, not remembering the origin of it until I saw a photograph of the stage in an old Milton School yearbook from the 1950s.

It showed rows of girls in antebellum costumes posing against a lavish backdrop, painted by yours truly, and all dancing to a musical written, produced and directed by my Southern mother from Selbyville. I later created a painting of it that now is displayed in my darkened hallway, a memento of my past.