A long, long time ago in a high school far, far away, I was a freshman. One day as I stood in the hall with my best friend Lorinda, talking with some teacher whose name and face have passed from memory, we were approached by a senior. Her name was Jill and I thought she was about the most beautiful gal in school. She knelt down by Lorinda’s feet and delicately removed something from Lorinda’s pant leg. Jill then stood up and said, “Excuse me. You have a piece of lint.” Jill held the lint before us and Lorinda took it from her hand. Jill smiled, then turned and walked away, lighting the hall as she took her leave.
I thought of this the other day after seeing a bit of dryer lint on my own shirt. As I removed the clingy substance, I remembered Jill fondly. She was indeed beautiful. She was also friendly and smart. Back then I wondered why she attended Pike County High School. It seemed to me her family were better off than most and I always thought she should have been going to some private school somewhere. (Never mind that I couldn’t have named a single private school in our area.) Jill was impeccably dressed at all times. She dated guys named Caesar, from outside our school district. She attended debutante balls. In short, she was a prototypical young Southern lady. And at that time, she was the only one in all of PiCoHi.
I don’t know why the Jill-Lint moment lodged itself in my brain-hole. Maybe because I admired her. Maybe because she represented everything I wasn’t. Most likely, I’ve retained that memory all these years because it was so danged funny. That’s a good enough reason for me.