[12:29]: And I’m at a barrel museum
[12:30]John:...why?
Fourquestions! This is definitely a record.
[12:31]: For fun!
[12:31]: Duh.
[12:32]: I took Mrs. Finnamore, the lady I’m helping out at home
[12:32]: She didn’t really want to come, though
[12:33]John:smart lady
[12:33]: Pffft
[12:33]: You wish you were at a barrel museum right now
[12:34]John:I really don’t
[12:34]John:but have fun, I guess
[12:35]: I will, thanks!
[12:35]: Enjoy your sad, barrel-less weekend
[12:35]John:haha
[12:35]John:thanks
Well, would you look at that? An “lol”anda “haha.” Somebody alert the media.
I chuckle at myself, then lurch sideways as someone’s toddler rams into my legs. I smile at the kid’s mother, who apologizes wearily.
“No problem,” I say.
I watch the kid run off to barrel (ha!) into someone else, then smile a little to myself. Maybe John and I are more than Wordle allies. Maybe we’re Wordle acquaintances. Heck, maybe we’re even approaching Wordle friends!
I wander around the museum, peering at exhibits and just taking in the general atmosphere. It’s been so long since I’ve been to a museum, I forgot how much I love them. They’re so quiet and peaceful, and it’s so fun to learn something new—even something as objectively dry as barrel-making. It would be cool to work here, watching people mill about, soaking up little bits of knowledge. I wonder if they ever need anyone to help out.
Just as I think it, my eyes land on a poster pinned to a nearby wall.
VOLUNTEERS WANTED
Likefate.
I glance over to make sure Mrs. Finnamore isn’t looking for me (she isn’t; apparently Jim is much better company than I am) and then head back to the main desk where we bought our tickets. I wait for a young family to finish their purchase and then step up to talk to the middle-aged woman working the desk. Five minutes later, I’m chatting with the museum manager in a back room. Five minutes after that, I have my first shift! From noon to five tomorrow, and every Saturday and Sunday after that. The museum manager, Shelley, says I’ll start at the ticket desk, but once I feel comfortable, I can move on to guided tours.
Well, okay, actually she said that all I had to do was sell tickets and keep an eye out for kids trying to push barrels over, but when I suggested doing guided tours in the future, she looked at me funny and said, “I guess.”
Whatever. I’m going to take it. I’ve been looking for something to fill up my weekends a bit, and this is going to be perfect. Plus, museums are kind of creative places, aren’t they? Plenty of “scope for the imagination,” as Anne of Green Gables would say.
Grinning cheerfully, I make my way back to Mrs. Finnamore, who is still talking with Jim.
“Ah, Emily,” she says briskly. “I was just telling Jim how you’re going to be helping me out around the house. She’s going to get my groceries,” she tells Jim. “And she’s going to do the laundry, once I’ve taught her how to use the machine properly.”
“Is that right?” Jim asks. He’s very tall and thin, with a few strands of white hair combed over his crown. He’s got a kindlylook about him, and even though his hands are swollen and curled around his cane, he seems pretty hale for his age.
