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Baker: An angel at the ATM?

By Kathy Baker

It is 7 a.m. on a frosty December morning. I step out on my front porch to retrieve a package. Wearing my usual chic, pre-shower ensemble (ancient eyeglasses, black sweats, a too-tight tee shirt bearing the affirmation “I deserve a standing ovation,” accented with white athletic socks and a pair of sandals), I wave at my neighbor, Eula Mae, who is loading her kids into the car to drop them off at school. Even at that hour, she looks fresh as a daisy. I hope my appearance doesn’t startle her too much.

Baker: An angel at the ATM?
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