As our little family approaches the date of its exodus, its migration, its scattering to the winds (I exaggerate, of course, as we’re talking here about a measly three months), the particular beauty and special qualities of our little corner of this great, wide world urge themselves upon me.
What does the Misfit say to the grandmother in Flannery O’Connor’s short story “A Good Man is Hard to Find”?
“She would’ve been a good woman,” said The Misfit, “if it had been somebody there to shoot her every minute of her life.”
Yeah, something like that. Or as O’Connor herself later commented, “It is the extreme situation that best reveals what we are essentially.” One of life’s little ironies: you have to lose a thing, or face the real possibility of losing it, before you begin to see it clearly. Whether it’s your very life, as is true of the grandmother, or something as simple as this: