A started story

My grandmother, Mary Moss Harbinger, kept her gallstones in a mason jar in her avocado green Frigidaire for almost thirty years before she died of colon cancer. “Entrails is tricky, hon,” she said to me the last time she was able to walk to the bathroom. “You had better pray you take after your Daddy Baz’s side, because us Mosses got piss poor innards.” Daddy Baz, who had won the title Most Hateful Man in Deluda, SC a million times over, was the one who was paying me forty dollars a week that summer to sit with Grandma.