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Red Hot American Days

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Holly Golightly: I’m like cat here, a no-name slob. We belong to nobody, and nobody belongs to us. We don’t even belong to each other.

I was born to bright swirls of yellows and greens in the sky, blue bright waves crashing by, Brasil.

My mother remarried and we moved to the States. When we did, I wanted to be everything American too, like our adoptive grandmother Patsy. A beloved nurse, a wife to a war hero, a lover of film and dance.

My sister and I didn’t speak much English then, we sat enamored watching Patsy as she put on her drop earrings last.

I’ll never forget our summers spent with her in Texas at the lake. Red hot American days eating ice cream and renting VHS tapes from Patsy’s hideaway place, the local library.

I remember rushing home with her leading us to the den to watch Hepburn, Taylor, Vivien Leigh say things and feel things we couldn’t possibly understand then.

The only thing that quenched our thirst more: Patsy’s famous ice cold, pink lemonades.

Image from Pleasantville

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