I am four years old. We live in an apartment complex in Michigan. We don’t have a big porch like we had in Tennessee. Daddy has brought us North after his brother insisted he try factory work. He makes cars.
Momma hangs the wash on the line while I watch Howdy Doody, a glass of milk and a doughnut on a tray in front of me. I have been warned not to knock the tray over, so I move carefully.
I feel very rich because we have water in the house, and a television. I love the sign on screen and 
the buzzing sound it makes. I especially love when, late at night, the National Anthem plays as the television station signs off. I am allowed to stay up late if Momma and Daddy are playing Rook with my aunt and uncle.
I see Momma through the window. She is beautiful, and I am a little afraid of her. She can be smiling one second and spanking us the next. I want to go into the yard, but I am not sure she’ll like it. After all, she sat me in front of Howdy Doody. When he suggested we get a doughnut and milk, she did.
She is standing knee deep in grass. It sways in the breeze. I see her shaking each piece of laundry, two clothespins in her mouth. I see other mothers outside. One of them is washing a car. One of them is screaming at her children. Another one is sitting in a chair, smoking a cigarette.
I watch Momma. The breeze wraps her skirt around her legs. I think she is the prettiest Momma in our complex. She takes the clothes pins from a bag hanging from the line, puts two in her mouth, hangs the article of clothing, then takes two more pins and puts them in her mouth.
Howdy Doody doesn’t hold my attention. I leave my doughnut and milk and head outside. Momma looks tall because the grass only reaches to her knees. Her hair lifts in the breeze. She swipes her forehead. I wade through the grass, holding out my hands and sweeping the grass. I remember the hay in Tennessee, which is really far away.
I stand beside her. She smells of Jergen’s lotion.
“Could we make hay out of this grass?” I ask.
“No, this is not our grass, and besides, what in the world would we do with hay?”
“Did you have to fight Indians when you were little?” I ask.
“Yes. They shot me in the belly with an arrow. Do you want to see the hole?” She doesn’t take the clothespins out of her mouth to talk. She lifts her shirt and shows me her navel.
“That’s your belly button!” I laugh.
“No, it’s a hole where the Indians shot me with an arrow. If you don’t believe me, ask your daddy.” She lifts a sheet, shakes it, pins it onto the clothesline. “Why are you not watching Howdy Doody?”
I think she could be telling the truth. If so, why do I have a belly button? How did I get the hole in my tummy? How did Momma survive being shot with an arrow? Why had this been kept secret? Did the Indians get in trouble for shooting my Mommy? Where are the Indians now?
I decide I hate Indians. I think about the shows on television where the Indians ride wildly on horseback, screaming and scalping poor people in covered wagons.
I run back into the apartment and pretend to watch Howdy Doody
Through the window, I watch Momma finish hanging the wash. I am so happy the Indian’s arrow didn’t kill her. I say a prayer to thank Jesus.
My milk and doughnut taste pretty good. I settle down. Howdy Doody is really fun. I hope Momma lets me stay up late, to watch the television sign off.
