“Quit your hollerin’,” a voice came from the direction of the kitchen. “What’s the matter with you? Your mama raise you in a barn?” “No, but our grandma did,” Nash called back. Elizabeth Jane Persimmon, all five feet one inch of her, clomped out to greet us. She wore her hair cut short around her face as she had for as long as I could remember. Never missed a trim. Her rubber gardening clogs squeaked on the floor. She was in her typical uniform of cargo pants and a blue t-shirt.
