Enjoy this story from my mother’s memory bank:

Mama gave me the twin chicks hatched from a double-yoked egg since they were odd, slow and probably wouldn’t have made it on their own. I coddled those two from the first.  They’d imprinted on me and followed me everywhere. It is likely they had chromosome damage since they developed into normal looking roosters while retaining their “chick” behaviors. Their voices never deepened.  They never crowed, nor showed normal aggression, nor any interest in the ladies.  They’d bobbled along behind me “Cheep, cheep, cheeping” long after they were grown.  From the first, I’d put them in my baby buggy and wheel them around like dolls.  We must have been a hilarious sight once they grew too big to ride in the buggy together; the lucky rooster would get to ride while the other followed behind, “Cheep, cheep, cheeping.” Surprisingly, Mama tolerated them in the house since we never stayed in long enough for them to make a mess.

A trader came through the country, buying up livestock and chickens. He offered me two dollars for the pair.  I’d never dreamed of holding such a princely sum and jumped at the chance.  Of course, I wanted them back as soon as the truck was out of sight.  I wondered afterward why Mama let me sell them, but years later after experiencing children with animals, the answer was obvious.  She probably welcomed the opportunity to rid herself of a couple of unbalanced roosters. And their inevitable destiny was Sunday dinner,  so she was avoiding the complication of a devastated child at the same time.

While waiting for Daddy’s next trip to Clarksville, I spent that two dollars a thousand times considering the possibilities of a new dress, dolls, a tea set, a pony…whatever crossed my mind. By the coming Saturday morning, I’d settled on the most precious of all, a Shirley Temple hat with a rolled brim and ribbon on the back.  I could already envision my golden ringlets bouncing adorably, just like Shirley’s, despite my stick-straight blonde hair.  The hat was the magic.

There was always a truck ferrying passengers between outlying towns and Clarksville several times a day on Saturdays.   For a quarter, a rider could buy standing-room in the back for himself and his purchases.   I was up early to tuck my two dollars in Daddy’s worn leather change purse this Saturday, with the reminder, “Don’t forget my Shirley Temple hat.”

He patted his pocket, “How could I forget something so important, Kitten?” He put on his felt hat and strode to the truck waiting in the breaking light.  Watching, as they drove off, I wished I could go along, but hadn’t even asked.  It cost a quarter to ride to town.  A quarter would buy a lot of things.  We didn’t have money to throw away on rides to town just for fun.  Someday, I’d go to Clarksville and stay as long as I wanted.  I watched for the truck’s return all day, interrupting my play at intervals to look down the long dusty road.  I must have asked Mama a dozen times when Daddy would be home, always getting the same answer, “He won’t be here till after the last truck runs. Then he’ll be on the next one.”  That puzzled me, but left me knowing it would be late.  A trip to town was a pleasure, an opportunity to socialize and conduct business, a gift for the garrulous to savor as long as possible.

Finally, finally, in the dusk I saw dust fogging behind the old black truck. Two or three people besides Daddy were standing in the back, holding to its wooden side rails.  When it pulled over in front of our house, Daddy climbed out, reaching for his parcels.  Just before it pulled off, someone called out, “Oh, Mr. H.  You forgot this.”  Daddy reached over the rails for one last package.  After all my waiting, he’d almost left my Shirley Temple hat in the back of the truck!

I was dancing with excitement, anxious for possession of my hat, but had to wait till Daddy got his packages in the house. Then Mama took her time washing and drying her hands before sending me for the hair brush.  Then I even had to wash my face and hands before she took the hat and adjusted it on my head.  When I admired myself in the mirror, my heart fell.  My hair was straight.  Where were the ringlets?  I had envisioned myself in this hat looking just like Shirley Temple. “My hair is straight!  It doesn’t look right!”

Seeing the tears in my eyes, Annie came to my rescue.  “Oh, that’s easy to fix.  Shirley Temple’s hair is straight, too.  Her mama has to put fifty-two pin curls every night to get her hair in ringlets.  We’ll just curl your hair.”

With that, Annie got out the strips of rag she sometimes used, dampened and twisted my hair in tight rolls, close to my head. When we got up the next morning, she combed my curls into ringlets and adjusted my hat just like Shirley’s, before sending me to look at myself in the mirror, assuring me I was even cuter than Shirley!  She was right! I was enchanted with the transformation from every day, straight-haired Kathleen, to Kathleen the Fairy Queen!

Never one to encourage vanity, Mama shooed me outdoors long before I’d gotten my fill of prancing and admiring myself in the mirror. Ol’ Jack the hound, and the chickens showed little interest in my new look, so I made the mistake of wandering over to John, who was occupied with rigging his fishing pole.  “John, look at my new hat.  Annie fixed my hair just like Shirley Temple’s.  Don’t I look pretty?”

John didn’t look up, barely acknowledged this ridiculous question coming from a sister. “I reckon you’ll pass in a crowd.”  I was fortunate he’d been too busy to come up with a more caustic response.

Still seeking an audience for my charm, I stood and waited by the dusty road, hoping a neighbor would happen by. Finally, I heard a car.  Posing myself as close as I dared, I turned my back to give the passerby the best view of my bouncy curls and hat, reaching up to adjust the curls as they passed. Oh, look at that darling little girl! My imagination took over.  I waited again.  A old man driving a wagon pulled by two mules was plodding into view. He was sure to notice me.  I waited and posed as he approached.  Since he had so much time, he’d be sure to remark.  I waited as he passed, his head drooping in sleep.  Disgusted, I sat on a stump, to give it one more try.  Eventually, an old Model T approached.  Hopping up, I struck a pose, my back to the road.  The old car rocked to a stop. Finally, someone with enough sense to admire me!

“Hey! Little gal!  Is your daddy around?  I need to git some water for my radiator.”  Disgusting — the losers who travel these back roads! As I ran to get Daddy, I abandoned all hope of further compliments.