An Olive storm blows in from the other side of the house and makes a screaching halt right in front of my dad and me. Arms outstretched by her sides, elbows bent, palms up, she emphasizes her point with exaggerated up and down action.
"Momma! Gwam is talking to me like he's a dult. But he's not a dult, he's a kid like me!" (Shaking little fists of fury.) "ARGH!"