[dropcap]L[/dropcap]ittle Jamie had her daddy wrapped around her finger,” said Jamie’s mother. “Would you believe, one year for her birthday she asked him for an honest-to-goodness pony?”
Jamie interjected, “I did not…” She cleared her throat. “… all I said was that I wouldn’t mind if Daddy happened to buy one.”
Her mother continued. “Well, it’s no surprise, for Jamie’s eighth birthday, he bought her a god-forsaken miniature horse. She’d crawl upon that horrid beast and ride in circles until her hindparts fell asleep.”
Jamie smiled, recalling the pleasant tingling of pins and needles in her plump saddle-sore cheeks.
“Oh,” her mother said. “You should’ve seen Jamie. She had a little cowboy hat, boots, and a cap gun strung around her waist like Dale Evans. She’d fire her gun in the air shouting, ‘Momma, look, look! I’m King Bear Bryant!’”
“King Bear Bryant?” I interrupted. “He didn’t ride horses.”
Jamie shot me in the groin with her imaginary pistol. “No one asked you.”
“The point is,” said her mother. “Jamie could’ve asked her daddy to buy all Birmingham, Alabama and he would’ve made an offer. So, I finally got smart about things.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, I successfully convinced little Jamie we needed a new car for her ninth birthday. A nice one, green, with tan leather seats. Because real cowgirls deserve leather seats.”
“Nope. I got a little horsepower of my own that year,” she said, slapping her imaginary stallion on its tail-end. “Who’s King Bear Bryant now, kid?”
You are, Miss Mary.