Today, at breakfast, Shirley had more to say about what happened last March.
“Can I call you Shirley?”
“I guess you can. That’s my name, ain’t it?”
“In spite of what you heard from Marge Sandiford–I’m not crazy; I’m not a hero ; I’m a survivor. I was a survivor before the textile plant closed, and will be after.”
“Don’t make me out to be things I’m not. I don’t need no help. Except, I would like to get Mugwump back.”
“I don’t have anything against the Sandifords. They’re good people. That’s why I picked them. I knew they wouldn’t bother me.”
“If I had money, I’d pay them something for their trouble. But, I don’t. That’s how I got in this mess. That’s why you’re here.”
“You’re here for a story–which is your way of making money.”
“Where was your shirt made? Just like I thought–made overseas.”
“You’re not the only one. Can’t hardly buy anything made in this country anymore–even if you wanted to.”
“If I was President, I’d do something about it. I’m not and ain’t likely to ever be.”
Sheriff’s deputies answered a disturbance call in Clarke county, West Texas, only to find a squatter residing under a back porch.
There they discovered a sizeable room with borrowed electricity, crude storage tanks for water. The walls appeared to be constructed from pallets, scrap lumber, and cardboard. Packed clay made up the floor, which had been excavated; allowing a person of short stature to stand.
Shirley Fineguard hadn’t been seen for a number of years. It was assumed she moved away after a local textile plant closed.
“We were completely shocked the way it turned out,” Said homeowner W. E. Sandiford of Metford–a small town near Amarillo.
“I thought it was critters,” Said Mrs. Sandiford. “My Lord, why would somebody want to live like that? You know how hot and dusty it gets around here in the summer.
“There are good folks here–church going people. We would have helped her. Well, in a way, I guess we already did; Miss Shirley lived…
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