Puts Me In Mind Of Miz O
“My pond, my pole, my fish … my supper,” she snarled. At least she gave me his head. Mounted on my bedroom wall, it shoots me a mean stare every day: Puts me in mind of Miz O.
Mrs. Olivia O’Dale, known as Miz O, was an old dowager who owned a cattle ranch near my father’s Mississippi Delta Farm. Ill-tempered and spiteful, she would knit her eyebrows, stab folks clean through with stiletto, steel-gray eyes, purse her lips, and expectorate, as if the person toward whom she glared stank. She was fullback big, stingier than Scrooge, and richer than Croesus, having inherited half the county when her husband gave up the ghost after quaking in fear of his battleaxe bride for half a century.
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