Fridays (Friday Number Four, September 8th, page 4 of 20)


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By Sunday I had recovered from my blue-funk-mood, ready to face school with my usual enthusiasm and, by gum, I did. I've spent the past week at Whitcomb Elementary, amid furniture scarred with eighty years of initials. Above me stared George Washington on one side and Abraham Lincoln on the other, while I played and cavorted with my new little charges, packing their eager brains with a wealth of knowledge! It was a fine week indeed! I barely gave a thought to the prospect of another Friday night.

Even Wednesday evening was interesting. The hens have relinquished all other topics of gossip to usurp poor Mr. Anderson to their pulpit agenda. They do not inquire directly about our relationship through some established code of decency. However, they are bursting with curiosity and I firmly believe, at least in their minds, they have published our banns of marriage since I first alighted from his car, cold casserole in hand.

Why he chose Lucille Peabody remains as much a mystery to me as ever. I continue to wonder if Father Hammond played any part in the choice. I suppose the hens also wonder, unless they know more than I. However, as a result of their clandestine investigations, I am embarrassed to say I too have learned a great deal about my Friday evening escort. This knowledge results from nothing more than passive action on my part.

Hen Myrtle Toomey seems the best informed of the flock. "My cousin Harriet knew him in high school. Did you know he starred in football, basketball and baseball and a slew of colleges were after him?"

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