I found, while thinking about the far-reaching world of the creative black woman, that often the truest answer to a question that really matters can be found very close. In the late 1920s, my mother ran away from home to【51】my father. Marriage, if not running away, was【52】of seventeen-year-old girls. By the time she was twenty, she had two children and was pregnant【53】a third. Five children later, I was born. And this is how I【54】to know my mother: she【55】a large, soft, loving-eyed woman who was【56】impatient in our home. Her quick, violent temper was on【57】only a few times a year, when she【58】with the white landlord who had the misfortune to suggest to her that her children did not need to go to school. She made all the clothes we wore, even my brother's【59】. She made all the towels and sheers we used. She spent the summers canning vegetables and fruits. She spent the winter evenings making quilts【60】to cover all our beds. (51)