Fridays (Friday, August 11, page 2 of 6)


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The two bedrooms will be refinished piecemeal; I'm in no hurry and want them just so. I'm used to my room after thirty-seven years of nights spent there and my parent's room needs more thought and time before I'm up to tackling that project. Too many ghosts therein dwell. Besides, there is a long winter and there will be ample time for those tedious chores.

I'm proud of what I've so far accomplished though I was as nervous as a cat on catnip to tackle the project. It may seem silly to some, but I don't do well explaining myself to strangers and I dreaded having to talk to so many different people to convey my wishes. Somehow, I bit my lip and pushed ahead, successfully. Now I can go back to being shy little Lucille Peabody, queen of her own private world, but now ensconced in the comfort of a palace of my personal design.

Perhaps an explanation is in order as to why I am putting these words to paper in this newly opened blank notebook, why, at this stage of my life I am chronicling my daily doings in such minute and mundane detail. To be honest, the chore is a half-hearted response to Father Hammond at our church. The poor man is beside himself. He has dogged me to pen this litany of absurdity for several weeks. You see, I have sealed myself in a chrysalis of anonymity, so secure and comfortable the good father wrongly views me as a lamb of his flock in utter despair.

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