MY MEMORY OF BLIND MOLLY

Somewhere in West Frankfort a couple of blocks north of the little, green house where we lived was a white house. I was little, so I can’t tell you for sure. The lady in the house had a granddaughter named Molly. Molly was blind, but you would never know it except to look at her eyes. Her hearing was so good that it substituted for the lack of sight. My one memory of her was her chasing me around her grandma’s yard and gravel driveway while she was riding a tricycle, pedaling every bit as fast as I was running. No matter what direction I ran, she was never far from my heels – and I was a fast runner. I was terrified because I didn’t know if she could or would stop if I did. Fortunately, I never found out. I ran up the stairs and into the house to be safe. I would love to meet Molly again. Someone with that much spunk and capabilities would be worth knowing. I just hope she’s not driving a car using her hearing in place of sight.