One Easter morning while the Tate girls were at church, our house was robbed. Gone was the television. Gone was the eight-track player. Gone was our sense of security.
Daddy, who never stepped foot in church, not even the obligatory Easter and Christmas church services, had driven down to the corner grocery store for Sunday morning cigarettes.
I was only gone ten minutes, he alleged.
In ten minutes our house was cleaned out.
Easter and cigarettes don’t mix.