This was the first home of my memory. There was heavy, shinny, fringe skirting all of the living room furniture. The kitchen had a wall of plastic sheeting where granddaddy, the weekend carpenter was building an addition onto the back. He worked for the railroad. He once told me that he would wedge a coin in the tracks and whichever way the coin was bent, he’d know if the train was coming or going. There was a big sandbox out back, a wringer washing machine in the shed and a rich, old woman who lived across the road.
2 comments:
AH HA! Before a way-too-big cup of coffee I misread your title as 'box of broken MATCHES', but only now do i read it correctly as WATCHES! ah ha! that is MY BOX of broken WATCHES to which you refer, which now holds handmade necklaces, by the way. I didn't let go of the broken watches, but instead transferred them to a plastic baggy under the bathroom sink...
I too have broken watches at home. I keep them in a drawer in the bedroom. What makes us hold on to watches that don't work anymore and never will?
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