Whenever I read O’Connor, I go back to my grandmother’s house in Bills’ country. The hedges in front of the white house and old chicken coops in the back remind me of O’Connor’s Andalusia Farm. My grandmother who convicted O.J. of murder before he was a suspect, who made my uncle redo his confession because he went to the Italian Catholic Church instead of the Irish one, who kept a portrait in the living room of her long-deceased husband until the day she died, reminds me of several O’Connor characters.
Every Man a Misfit
