Diamond in the Rough Read Online Free

notably from an early scene at the drugstore where the young George Bailey, a soda jerk, greets the prettiest girl in school as she comes in to flirt with him: “H’lo, Violet.” Soon every phone call began this way. “H’lo, Violet.” Now we are Violet. And Vi. And Yer Vi. We’ve both lived in Austin now for fifteen years, and our daughters, the cousins, have grown up together. And although I may be the songwriter, it’s my sister, Kay, who developed our language and our nicknames, and she might say at this point, “Violet, there’ll be nary a dry eye!”
    I got my mother’s cheekbones and mouth, my dad’s nose and eyes. My build resembles my father’s, solid and sinewy. My singing is a neat combination of the two of them—I inherited the dexterity of my mother’s trained, operatic-type voice and the earthy, just-us-folks warmth of my father’s delivery. I walk like a cowboy. I’m bound by deep love to my family and would do anything they asked of me. As my siblings and I got older, the gaps seemed to close, but growing up I sometimes felt like we were satellites, orbiting the planet of our parents, sending and receiving necessary information at regular intervals but ultimately alone out in space. To an extent, though, this has always been my nature—feeling apart from. Things would get worse for me before they got better.

2
    A Vengeance

    Me at ten, with a space between my teeth and a bad hair day, 1966
    You don’t have to drag me down,
I descend.
    The trouble mostly started when I was twelve, after the family moved from Vermillion to London, Ontario, briefly, and then on to Carbondale, Illinois. I was a simple geek in South Dakota, a cool cat in Canada, and a total freak show in Illinois—that was the general progression.
    From as far back as I can remember, I have been afflicted with phobias of a hypochondriac’s nature. From the flu to flesh-eating viruses to good old predictable brain cancer, I’ve spent more than my fair share of time worrying about what I might die of. I drove my poor mother crazy by asking her constantly, “Will I be all right?” This has been diagnosed as “panic disorder,” but for me it’s just been a general way of life. I was neurotic, anxious, headstrong, emotional, overly sensitive, and high-maintenance. (Haven’t changed much …) I took a lot of energy. I was afraid of dying. I was afraid of getting sick. I was simply afraid. I don’t know if it was the mood disorder already in play or if I was just that kind of kid. Maybe it was a combination of both.
    In 1967, when I was eleven, my father sold the small newspaper business he had inherited from his father and decided to go back to college to get a doctorate in psychology, so wherever his schooling took him, we followed. I’d lived in Vermillion my whole life, and I was terrified at the prospect of leaving. But leave we did. First stop: Canada!
    We moved into a split-level ranch house in the suburbs of London, Ontario, on Hunt Village Crescent, just down the street from a popular girl named Tara who befriended me. As fate would have it, my status as “new girl” worked in my favor; plus, I had breasts by that time and was becoming almost pretty after my awkward, space-between-my-teeth-with-hairy-legs phase. I had my first-ever male teacher, Mr. Waite, who had red hair and a killer smile. I was in love with him, so of course I made an ass of myself all the time, most poignantly when he read the morning prayer over my shoulder one day and I realized after he walked away that on the back of my hand (which was palm down, holding the book open) was a monstrous booger.

    Me, Dad, and Geoff, 1967
    Canada worked out for me. It was very clean and had candy bars far superior to those in the States. One of my favorite memories is of skiing on winter weekends and enjoying the après-ski treat of a Cadbury’s Crunchie bar and a hot chocolate. A boy named Robbie liked me, and my mother actually bought me an outfit from