The sweet, clean scent of Ivory soap takes me back to thoughts of Mama and those warm summer evenings. At ages six and four, Wanda and I seldom wore shoes. Living out in the country, we loved to run in our bare feet all day long. At bedtime, Mama was insistent that we went to bed with clean feet.
I had just arrived at the state office and was immediately sent out on my next social work case: four children, abandoned in a shack, tied up with ropes, and bleeding.
When no one responds to my knock, trembling, I slowly open the front door and step inside. Gasping at the stench, I cover my mouth in disbelief. Newspapers are scat...