“切特,把炸鸡端给我们的客人。”奶奶吩咐道。我的目光停留在诱人的美味上。我知道待客人吃过后,只会剩下一两块骨多肉少的部位。我家几乎天天都有这样的客人来敲门,请求施舍。他们四处流浪,被人叫做“流浪者”。但奶奶不这样称呼他们,她提醒我:“切特,你爸爸要不是在佛罗里达你韦尔叔叔的商店工作,也会这样的。” “Chet, give us the fried chicken guests. ” Grandma told Road. My eyes stay on the attractive taste. I know that after the guests have eaten, there will only be one or two bones and fleshy parts left. Almost every day at home, such guests knock on the door and ask for alms. They wander around, called “wanderer.” But her grandmother did not call them that way, reminding me: “Chet, your dad would not do that at Uncle Weir’s shop in Florida, and that’s it.” "