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Discards

I’m busy cleaning today; moving some furniture and decorative boxes holding importance, making room for the carpets (we still have carpets) to be cleaned tomorrow. A good time to purge. A pile of books, most fun reads but not so good as to warrant keeping forever, odds and ends, ¬†papers. You know the drill. Give-away bag(s) open and ready to pass along to others. A “maybe” pile. Things to chew over for a day or so; I really don’t use that, but, maybe I will . . .

Like many of you (you don’t think I’m going into the abyss alone, do you?), I tend to save a lot, to collect too much, and to dream of what I will do with “it”. Also, like many of you, I am active in several outside organizations that require their own ample pile, so files and boxes of things to pass on to the next one in line are also a part of the mix.

And then there is Hazel. I call her Hazel, though I don’t know who she is. I found her in a box of someone else’s discards. She looked lonely and worn and I felt sorry for her, so, I plucked her gingerly out of the box and, for $1.50, brought her home. Then, having grown rather fond of her, I named her Hazel and proceeded to move her here to the Cutoff. As you can surely see, ¬†poor Hazel is bent where she shouldn’t be. She likely looks so dour because of a shoulder injury right in the bend. She looks pained, doesn’t she? I sense her life was hard work and sadness and tragedy and that she was tired most of the time. She took care to be neat, though, and treasured the brooch pinned close to her neck. Was it her mother’s? A gift from a beau? Someone, somewhere, cared enough for dear Hazel to pay for her likeness to be rendered and I imagine it was placed in a frame on a wall and she watched over family for years and then, the end of the line. The old homestead was sold and a sale was had. With no family left, or those left did not care, and the picture was plucked for its frame, while Hazel, herself, made it into the box and then into the store and then into my hands and here dear Hazel has sat, gathering dust like memories in an attic.

I’m busy today, cleaning and sorting and dusting and such, but, you know, I think I will keep Hazel with me for a little while longer. I just can’t bear to discard her just yet.

A load of dirt is being delivered, right now, as I type. Dumped on the drive, Tom supervising, a new plot to be formed for spring.

Gotta go.

Oh, oh! Tom’s toast is smoking, the toaster is belching, and the fire detector just went off.

You know, I’m feeling a little like Hazel. I think I’ll keep her awhile longer.

So goes life on the Cutoff. How are you doing?

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