Several family members (including my mother, my father and my sister) and I were staying for a few days at the Ressinger House. Although my great-aunt Dorothy wasn't there (she had left for a few days), in the kitchen she had left several items of food for us to eat. Mostly she had supplied us with various types of deserts – there must have been 20-30 different kinds. But when I sampled some of the desert, I was disappointed by the lackluster taste. One desert wasn't even cooked – it looked like the ingredients of a pecan pie in a bowl. It tasted awful.

I did find one thing which interested me: a green knapsack. I picked up the knapsack and carried it into the room where my mother and my sister were. Standing in front of them, I pulled a bottle of amber whiskey from the knapsack. I thought the whiskey had probably belonged to my great-uncle Curt. I didn't open the bottle, but I thought I would probably take a drink later. I noted my mother didn't seem to mind my having the whiskey. My sister, however, piously seemed to think there was something wrong with drinking the whiskey.

I left them and walked back into the hall which led to the kitchen. In the hall, a small boy was on the floor close to an open door which led to the basement. He was certainly a strange-looking little fellow. He looked as if he had no body, only a head, about the size of a grapefruit. Afraid he might roll down the basement stairs, I pushed him away from the doorway with my foot, and I closed the basement door. My mother stepped into the hallway and picked up the little boy; now I could see he did have a body, although small and completely out of proportion with his head. His neck was extremely tiny. But, maybe he would someday grow up and shape up.

I walked back into the kitchen where my sister was now busily preparing a late snack for herself and my father. She had heaped a scoop of whipped cream onto what looked like a blueberry pie. Obviously, my sister was intent on currying favor with my father, and I knew she was too selfish to fix any for me. But, it didn't matter. I could fix my own; and I would rather have strawberries than blueberry pie anyway.

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