Our father ran his household with an iron fist. A cheap iron fist.
Summers were bad – no air conditioning, no breeze, open windows only.
Winters were worse – no heat, no fireplace, heavy blankets instead.
And all in the name of saving a few bucks. If we didn’t like it, we could leave. Not exactly a reality for three kids under twelve.
But this frigid January morning was proving unbearable. The three of us huddled under one comforter, teeth chattering, bodies quaking.
“I need cocoa,” my brother whined.
“From where?” I asked.
“Nana’s?” my sister offered.
It was better than nothing…
The Weekday One Hundred 