I think Mom’s least favorite household chore was dusting, based on the fact she had me do it. Why baseboards and dresser tops require this attention eludes me but I did the deed every week in our 3-bedroom Elmhurst ’50s ranch house.
My dresser top was problematic. For each of 11 birthdays, I received a new porcelain figurine. Each was a different 3-inch fashionista commemorating the great month of March, in which I was born. They were on my dresser top, a gathering of mini-mes dressed like flowers, like ballerinas, like gentry, like heroines, depending on the whim of the manufacturer that year.
I didn’t enjoy dusting them but over time, I got used to them. They were pretty. They had pretty outfits. They had pretty smiles. My favorite wore a light brown coat and coral hat and little muff. Unlike the other ones, who were posed to twirl or leap or flit about, she didn’t do anything. But she looked ready to.