I only felt a strong sense of rebellion once, and I can see a distinct snapshot in my mind of where we were. It was in Bowling Green, Fl in about 1961. Migrant farm workers were having a tough time. One evening Daddy and I were standing in front of my bedroom door which led into the living room. Mother was there also. I challenged my father to do something meaningful about the plight of the farm workers. I felt that he was being too careful not to offend church contributors. Of course, I have since made many compromises which make the perceived reluctance of my father appear the reticence of a saint.
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