Fridays (Friday Number Four, September 8th, page 2 of 20)


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Amy has called upon me to fling the bell as far as I can. On one of my seaside walks, I carried it along, tinkling in my purse. But try as I might, I couldn't move myself to pitch it into the sea. I have stripped it of its small clapper, forever silencing its inpatient ring. Little Lucille is making progress, albeit sluggishly.

I cautiously opened the dresser drawers. They smelled of Yardley's Old English Lavender and moth balls, but contained little. There was ancient underwear, slips and bras unused for ages, not to mention scores of carefully wrapped trinkets and glass figurines.

Mother was a hoarder of knick-knacks. A lifetime of little glass pitchers and statues cluttered our house, with the excess packed away in every nook and cranny. They were the fallout of numerous Christmases, birthdays and Mother's Days. Their sole purpose appeared to be giving my mother something to do; dusting the mass of junk at least weekly, as long as she was able.

"It's Thursday, Lucille. Dust." Though in my thirties, I'd dutifully drop what I was doing and comply.

Now, with the turning of my new leaf, the collection is history. I packed all but the few of the items in boxes and donated the lot to Whitcomb School on Saturday afternoon. The soccer team is having a sale and my offering should make them Olympic contenders! Thus, more memories left Hawthorne Street, in the dust of a retreating Radio Flyer, towed away by the happy kickers.

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