via #Sunday photo fiction
Myra Jean knew she was on a slippery slope. She looked out the window into the snowy street, sorry she had agreed to read at the Christmas Eve service. For the first six months, she had avoided volunteering for anything. Back in Baltimore, it was easy to go through daily life without really talking to anyone. She had moved to this small, isolated town to stretch her teachers’ pension. Unfortunately, the boarding house dining room had only two breakfast choices, grits and biscuits, and there were two topics of conversation, lost Confederate fortunes and the Great Depression. She began taking a book to meals.
At the lending library and town movie theatre, Myra Jean kept to herself and cut short any attempts at conversation. That was more difficult at church. She pulled on her galoshes and went down the stairs, into the snowy night. Trying to see through her fogged spectacles, she shook her head. After reading at a service, who knows what could happen? She could be recruited into a quilting group, a ladies’ aid committee, or even a garden club. Heaven help her, she might end up wearing a flowered hat and saying “Bless your heart!”