Once in grade school, I had a bloody nose. And although there wasn't anything monumental about that...the air was dry...it was winter...the fact that I didn't pay attention to all things evident in my life that shown like a picture window to my life to others, my thumb must have caught blood and held it there and attached itself to my paper where others saw it, said ewe and moved a little farther back on their chairs.
In old age, I am trying to pay attention to those things that might need more attention than others: my driving, after the accident last year and my insurance rates went up, not really my fault; my winter sweaters I find at Goodwill one bag for five dollars I am so proud but they don't last long, when I'm not careful.
In Catholic grade school, where the bloodied thumb print sent people scurrying, we spent eight years there and really didn't have a choice of friends. With eight or nine girls in a class, you brought everyone home to your house for birthdays and pre-holiday parties, new what their houses looked like as well, what kind of car they drove, how we all fit in the backseat going to church.
Two particular friends lived on a rented farm in a small house on a slope leading down to the pasture and drawers in their rooms so organized and color coordinated I was stunned upon seeing them at twelve. I still remember socks in one drawer, sorted by colors and all matching pairs, lined up one by one next to them like children on a playground where the nuns hovered round. Their sweaters, three on top of each other, and folded like they do in good stores in the Cities.
My sweaters drawers were like the sales counter in a second hand store: arms entwined arms and there was no pattern for colors.
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