“Move over, Bet,” my sister, Charl (short for Charlotte), said to me as we both tried to look at ourselves in the dresser mirror. At 8 and 10 years of age, we were excitedly trying on our Decoration Day dresses for the sixth time that week. We twisted and twirled as we admired ourselves. Excitement ran high as that special Saturday drew near.
It was the late 1940s in Happy Valley—the little Smoky Mountain community “east of nowhere” where we lived. And like everyone else, we were suffering from shortages and rationing in the aftermath of World War II. Being
