Hally – page 3
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"George loves me!" Hally told the mower giving it a big mean shove to get it rolling. "Loves my curly brown locks, my girlish curves, my wit, my down-to-earthpractical nature!"
She could feel her calves straining as she got herself going behind the mower.
Telling herself, "Loves my shapely legs," she arrived at the hedge they shared
with a neighbor.
"Lovely weather," said Mrs. Whittaker filling her bird feeder.
"It is." Hally took a second to pat down her hair, which was short, very thick, and extra unruly because of the humidity.
"Feels more like July 4th than Labor Day." She tugged on her cutoff jeans and T shirt.
"Mr. Whittaker always worked on Labor Day," said Mrs. Whittaker closing her bag of bird seed. She was a widow with no children but perpetually busy with things from her life with Mr. Whittaker. He'd owned a gas station on US 77, retired in a snit when Esso became Exxon, and never recovered from it.
"Haven't seen your husband George for a couple of days."
"I haven't seen him either. He's been in Oklahoma City."
"Getting money for the schools? Saw him getting into Calloways Taxi, heading out of here Friday with his briefcase and a garment bag."
On Greentree Lane your neighbors noticed everything.
"George had Board of Education meetings. Labor Day weekend's a good time for laboring on the budget. He'll be home tonight. Tomorrow's registration."
"Don't know how you manage, dear. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, ironing all those white shirts he wears, and rushing off to teach every morning. 'Course you've got the colored girl on Thursdays."
In Heart City, African Americans were still "colored." Hally turned the mower around, gave it a major push and trotted off declaring, "We manage just fine. George is handy with the iron. He usually does my shirts as well as his own."
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