Andrews Soon the toothpick-legged houses began to appear more frequently, some with children playing in the yards, some with Cajun women sitting on their galleries talking as they shelled peas into black castiron pots or wove split oak baskets and palmetto hats to sell to tourists. They looked up as we motored by. Just ahead of us, three fisherman emerged from a swamp, their poles over their shoulders, their beards long and straggly. And suddenly it occurred to me how different my mother's old world was from the world in which we now lived. How difficult and frightening it must have been for her at such a young age to leave this world on her own and enter a new world of rich people and sophistication. It must have been like going to another country. But she'd had no choice. She had fled from her drunken grandpere, hoping to be rescued. Now she had fled back to that Cajun world, also hoping to be rescued, and we were rushing there, praying we could save her. Life seemed to be drawn in circles.
