Jessica is the daughter of my sister, Becky. Jessie's incubation in 1981-82 must have been jolly fun with all the bouncing Becky laughter and the watery bubbly way it probably sounded.
The little blondie in cowboy boots resembles her maternal relatives.
She's lived all over rocky northern Maryland, in town and out in the countryside.
Her mom put her aboard a horse early on--in the case of the photo at left, several hours before she came unstuck from her mount and ended up on the ground with a broken arm.
Jessie has grown up since that day. In fact, now she can read, write, and answer the telephone without having to get permission. Balloons and Barbie dolls aren't so much fun as they used to be.
Becky's Little Onion has since dabbled in the teenagerly pursuits that give a parent kidicidal thoughts. Jessica has held jobs and had boyfriends. She can drive a lawnmower and she's wrecked a couple of cars. She's stayed out too late, mooned cops, taken life too seriously and not seriously enough. She's seen her friends grow up with greater or lesser measures of maturity and success. She's experimented and lives to tell the story.
I'll try to do justice to her life.