This is the way I remember the ladies of the 1950s, one in particular my neighbor. Her name was Grace and at the time of this story would have been approximately 43 years old. She stood barely over five feet, a well-proportioned lady, with an olive complexion. She wore her curled brunette hair shoulder length with a soft waving bang drifting over the left side of her forehead. Summer months always found her in soft, translucent against the sun, button down the front cotton print dresses. As a youth growing up I had always been attracted to her, she was always pleasant, quiet and very self-assured.Her husband worked away from home, often been gone for months at a time. Throughout my teen years I often found myself at her house. Overtime this presented many opportunities to catch glimpses of her in her daily routines. The houses back then had no air-conditioning, resulting in the top three buttons of her dress been left undone. I remember the day well, having just turned 18, I had gone. I should have stood up to him. I should have been strong for myself and for my wife but instead I looked up at this large man and said, “No. No of course I don’t want any trouble.”The man laughed at me and at that moment I thought my humiliation could never get any worse. That is until I looked at my wife’s face. Her expression was one of pure disgust. She looked at me as though I were a bug she’d found in the shower. She was seeing me in a different light in that one fleeting instant. I was no longer a man in her eyes. I saw that all in the one brief look she allowed me before I lowered my eyes and moved to the side.What else could I do? There were a dozen men crowded around us and the man who held my wife’s hand was enormous. He stood at least six foot three and easily towered over my five foot six frame. He had broad shoulders and rippling muscles that were made obvious by his too tight shirt. He had a full face of scruff that made my clean shaven face seem almost wimpy in.
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