Surely this ain't the same gal that always claimed she was from Lexington, North Carolina. Her name was Christina, " Crystal " Hights, or so she claimed. She was a strange sort, always keeping a pack of Lucky Strikes tucked into her large brassiere, a raven perched on top of her pillbox hat, she donned Brogan boots that appeared they'd spent the last evening stompin' house flies in the Port-O-Let, always sharing a cup of kahlua and a splash of coffee, a freshly picked batch of blueberries from her blueberry garden, the sports section she'd give me because she claimed she " wouldn't know a volleyball from a goat turd " , her coal black hair supposedly was coal black because she claimed she had worked in the coal mines in western Pennsylvania, and she always was strumming her Australian autoharp as the following tune played on her red and yellow AM radio. I'd laid a trillion to one she'd never ended up in the educational genre.