I grew up,
very long ago,
in another world,
the Land of Just-So.
This went here,
that went there,
in the Land of Just-So,
a scrupulous air.
Monday awash
in detergent solution,
all things foldable,
household ablution.
Tuesday’s iron,
clothesline scent,
dampened hankies,
Helen Trent.
Saturday’s shoes,
shampoo and set,
all spit-polished
for Sunday’s debt.
Christmas! Caution!
Order ruled!
In art of tinsel
were we schooled.
Lights with ruffs
like daisy petals,
real tree,
hot lights and metals.
Do it this way —
it’s a must!
Peace on earth,
but first we dust!
I remember.
But I disdain
neurotic Christmas
plague and bane,
and have matured
impatient, restive,
thinking cobwebs
might be festive.
I’ve left Just-So
as turtles run
for the saner land of
Just-Get-It-Done!
You may believe me, dear reader, when I say that this gap in my tree, pictured above, would have had my mother grabbing for the smelling salts. Further, there are ornaments that do not hang freely but slouch against other things — and light cords that show! To the fainting couch!
I have written before about Just-So and I’m sure I will again. Everything just so. I still struggle to overcome it, but I’m making good progress.
Oddments 