“Lawd,” Gracie starts, bundled in a big coat, earmuffs, and gloves, “I hate this here cold weather. Li’l ridiculous, ain’t it? I ‘on’t got an unfrozen bone in my body, I tell y’all.” She shivers, pouting, before continuing her speech. “And I’m squeezin’ my quarters so tight I ‘an hear them eagles screamin’--ain’t got a pot to piss in, I tell you what.” Sometimes, Gracie likes to hear the sound of her own voice, if she’s honest (and she is always honest). This habit combined with an almost crippling homesickness leaves her talking to herself--well, to be fair, there are a few people around, so she supposes she isn’t talking to herself--and, well, she’s in the mood for talking, so off she goes. “And Lawd,” she repeats, “I been rode hard and put away wet, that’s for d’rn sure. Listen, y’all, I ain’t seen a twenty in what might be ages,” she’s a sucker for a good hyperbole, “And y’all, I been drinkin’ the tap--could really go f’r a coke right about now.”
