Photo #5: [link]

She’d always loved that nightgown. Gramma had made it from the fabric they’d picked out together, soft flannel covered in flowers. The lace at the cuffs and collar had been a surprise. She remembered how she had begged to be allowed to change and how Mom said young ladies didn’t wear pajamas at the dinner table. She remembered Dad saying they could make a birthday exception, and then how Butch had wanted to wear jammies too. It had felt so wicked to break the rules, to eat her meatloaf with bare feet kicking under the table.

Wicked was simpler then.

Kristin, is Brian Butch? I mean, linking them to the names in the photo's title?

Missed the title until after I'd posted. Editing now.

Your take on Baby Brother Butch is kinder than mine. I had him spree-killing Chris and Judy, his parents.

What? I write mysteries for a living, damn it.

(edited for a truly wretched Freudian slip of a typo)

I wanted to go much further with how far she'd gone from the rules of her childhood to where she was now, but I ran out of words.

I wonder if she's related to Jean, the girl leaving for San Francisco in 1967?

I was imagining her on the verge of divorce after years of being taught about the sanctity of marriage, yadda yadda. Obviously the drabble went elsewhere, persnickety little beastie.

Heh. Whereas my mind immediately saw all that dark sixties/seventies paneling and lace doilies spattered with blood.

Mystery writer? Me?

Romancing the Blog today is on critiquing, the giving and taking thereof: [link]

I think Jilli should do her Gashlycrumb version of all the photos in the drabble pile. The washerwoman, the high-kicking headkerchief lassies, the cigarette and cocktail girls, the fox and the hound among the pigeons...