“Miss Abbott’s religion was Christianity by fear and by rote—so tenacious it got you by the extremities and never let go; it was a thing of interminable monologues, crazed soliloquies; she wanted you to believe she herself was in radio contact with the Deity, and had hung the moon for Him on day number six. . . .
    [A]t Christmastime one year, when my feeling against Miss Abbott were running strongest, I went looking for the biggest, darkest, foulest dog turd I could find. I took it home in a paper sack, and when no one was around I put it in a small box and gift-wrapped it in beautiful red paper. I put the box, containing its Christmas cheer, in a larger box and gift-wrapped that one, in fine green and white paper—then a larger box still, then two or three others, each one more elaborately wrapped and ribboned. When I had finished, I put all the six boxes in wrapping paper and, using my left hand, I wrote out Miss Abbott’s address. Then I took the parcel to the post office and mailed it. I felt good for days.”

—Willie Morris, recalling his Yazoo City, Mississippi childhood in North Toward Home, 1967.