for native wisdom there are few can hold a candle to my mother ... take, for instance, her insistence, in the naming of my brother, that he have a name befitting one whose brains are kind of small, to prepare him for the road ahead, for things that he'd be called ... well, sure enough, my brother's twenty now and working on the pier and, when someone yells, “Hey, stupid, pile them boxes over here,” he smiles and waves—most every time it's pretty much the same—he's thankful for the guiding hand and loves to hear his name

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