we spotted a woman in spike heels tottering ahead of us on a perfect green lawn. She was a pale-pink hallucination, a tipsy flamingo on the run, perfumed and powdered to the nth degree. As soon as she was out of earshot, Grannie turned to me with a sly smile and murmured, “Any woman who is all woman or any man who is all man is a complete monster unfit for human company.” This was the South in 1958, and I had never heard such a thing.
