The brain is an amazing organ. It might not let me remember your name when I meet you downtown, but it frequently presents a parade of memories for no logical reason. Some are entertaining; others, not so much. I never know what will spur any given memory.
Last Saturday Larry and I made a trip to Macon and back. I drove; Larry slept. I set the radio to an oldies station and cruised on down the highway. After we turned onto Interstate 16, I cruised a bit faster.
“Hang on, Sloopy, Sloopy, hang on . . .” blared through my speakers and put me right back in the kitchen where I served as dishwasher for about a hundred years. I saw my teenaged self dancing all around that old-fashioned kitchen, popping a dishrag in time to that song. Only the ringing of the black wall phone pulled my attention away from my music. I’d turn the music down just enough to hear Donna talking via the phone line. We talked about everything and nothing for hours on end or until one of our parents interrupted. Usually it was my mother coming in the back door and discovering the dishes unfinished.
“Mary Ann, what on earth’s taking you so long?” Mama would ask impatiently. “It’s almost time to start supper and you haven’t finished the dinner dishes. Were you on the phone again?”
“Yes, ma’am, but Donna was helping me with my homework,” I explained.
“Since when do you need help with your homework?” she scoffed. “Now finish those dishes and I mean right now.”
I smiled at the memory. Why did I hate dishwashing so much back then? I have no idea. Mama did all the major jobs and I just didn’t realize it at the time. I pulled my mind back to the interstate.
Larry sat up and glanced out the window.
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