We’ve had four in a row, first a young couple from Baltimore who are planning their wedding for next fall, then an old friend from my teaching days in Connecticut—now she’s based in Portland, the Oregon one—and my brother in-law, who drove down from the north, for a Joe Jackson concert in Boston, and stayed overnight.
Then last night, my husband’s Men’s Book Club convened to discuss The Lord of Misrule.
It’s been years since we had this many visitors in such a short time, and the washing machine has been busy every few days, with sheets, pillowcases, towels and blankets. The dishwasher, which we usually put into service every two days, has been going full speed, Auto Wash, twice a day.
My writing schedule has been scattershot at best.
Time to get back to that, and pick up where this left off a few days ago:
–There might not be a law saying blacks and whites should live separately, or that whites always have to be on top and the black man down there with the white man’s foot on his neck holding him down, Frankie said. –But this is the most northern Southern city, and if you think most white folks think all men are created equal, you are dead wrong.
I felt as though Frankie didn’t want to be my friend any more, just because I was white, and I told him so.
–It’s not like that, Mary Alice, he said. I’m trying to school you, just like those nuns are. I’m just suggesting that you open your mind up to different opinions from what you ‘ve grown up with.
I knew he thought Dad was a segregationist, but I didn’t want to say it, and neither did Frankie.
Back to work.