We lived nextdoor to a charming toddler for a while. I believe she got the personality quotient intended for the entire family. Abby and her parents came over for coffee with us one morning. I opened my pot and pan cabinet and gave the tiny girl full access, much to her delight. Armed with a sippy cup of milk, a bowl of vanilla wafers, and a couple of wooden spoons, she set to, making a mess of the cookies and milk stirred into the pots. Her tidy mom was appalled at the mess but we hadn’t had a baby playing on our kitchen flooring a long time, so we enjoyed it.
Abby banged the pots and made a destroyed the snacks. When satisfied with her work, she took a long, hard look at the wooden spoons in her possession. With renewed purpose, she examined the larger spoon, toddled over to her mother and shook the spoon in Mom’s face.
Giving her mom a hard look, Abby gritted her teeth, shook the spoon at Mom, and pronounced sternly,” I’m SICK!” Immediately, she stepped up her aggression, “I meat it!” (I mean it!)
Her mother was mortified at Abby’s mimicry. We didn’t even try to explain away our laughing at the toddler’s behavior. We let her take the spoon home with her, figuring it might even the odds.
Many Saturdays , our neighbors held church meetings in their home. They probably served a meal and visited since the guests remained a great portion of the day.
Our unfenced backyards ran together. Children of all ages played freely between the two yards while their parents worshipped. My kids loved the party atmosphere, mingling freely with the kids.
We were adding an addition to our house at the time. Bud had his power tools set up in the open area of the addition. No doubt, the power tools were quite loud, impacting the service next door. It was unfortunate they were holding services on the day Bud had laid out to work but he had to work on his days off.
Nevertheless, sometimes we could hear their enthusiastic singing over Bud’s sawing. After a while, a lady took it upon herself to speak to Bud about the noise. Genially, Bud replied, “Oh, go right ahead. You’re not bothering me.” In a huff, she returned to the service next door.
Meanwhile, our children had been invited and went along to the service when the kids were called in. After about twenty minutes, my son John came casually ambling out. “How did you like church, son?” I asked.
“It was okay. I helped ‘em sing and listened to Mr. Bob talk a little, but when they got ready to bust the bread, I came home.”
Dana and Bill lived across from us for years. Their two kids, Betsey and Greg hung out at our house a lot. Betsey was our daughter’s age and Greg about three years younger. He hung out with the girls or me and Bud. He was a witty, cute kid and we liked having them both around. Dana, a psychiatric nurse, worked nights. She was a card-carrying mean drunk. Even if they were allowed indoors, they were only allowed to eat a pre-determined amount of food since she didn’t want them to get fat. She had locks on the cabinets and freezer. Of course, they were always hungry and ate with us. Much of the time, she locked the kids out so she could sleep. Bill, also an alcoholic, was totally whipped and didn’t protect the kids.
One afternoon, Greg rushed over to the house. “Don’t let my dad get me! He’s gonna beat my ass! Greg disappeared into the bathroom with his dad close on his heels. Bill pounded on the back door and tried to push in past Bud with a belt doubled up in his fist, none too steady on his feet. Had he thought ahead, he’d have realized that was a bad idea. Bud had four inches of reach and forty pounds on him, but Bud stayed calm.
“I’m coming in for Greg. Dana said I gotta whip him. Him and the Bailey kid got in the beer. His mama told him what was gonna happen if he got in the beer.” Bill looked shamefaced, his heart not in his errand.
“Now hold on. I can’t let you go in my house and beat a kid. There are better ways to handle this.” Bud told him. “Go back home and sober up. Looks like y’all have both had plenty of beer.”
“Alright, I won’t come bustin’ in over you, but I’m gonna beat his ass when he gets home.” Bill offered.
“I’d think real hard about that.” Bud told him. “If you do that, you’ll have to deal with me. Go on home. Your boy can stay here till you’re sober and we’ll talk about it.” Bill left, seeming somewhat relieved at not having to deal with anything he’d stirred up.
Bud called Greg out. “Greg, you know you’re not old enough to drink. I wouldn’t let you drink either. You can stay here till I talk to your Dad and it’s safe to go home.”
The next day Bill came over and talked to the three of us, Greg, Bud, and me. “Dana said he can come home, but he’s going to Pine Hill. (Adolescent Psychiatric Facility) Get your stuff, boy.”
Bud asked Greg. “Is that what you want to do?”
“No sir. Can I stay here a few more days?” Greg asked.
“That’s between you and your dad. What do you think, Bill?”
“I gotta talk to Dana. She’s still pretty worked up.” Bill answered.
Greg stayed, not causing a minute of trouble. We weren’t foolish enough to think the problem was solved. We just wanted him safe. Four days later, Dana came to see Greg. “Do you want to come home? We miss you. You’ve been punished enough.”
“Am I still in trouble? Dad ain’t gonna whip me is he? I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Greg looked worried.
“No. I promise. Dad ain’t going to whip you and we aren’t to put you in the hospital. Just stay out of the beer.” She told him.
He went home to an apparently peaceful house, for the moment.
Over the next couple of years the family dynamics changed, not by choice. Dana got cancer and didn’t live long. She was heavily medicated and continued to drink, so her involvement was less each day. When she got too sick to work, they had to find a cheaper place to live. The children grew up and we lost touch, except for a time or two. The last I heard, Greg was doing well enough to move out on his own. Betsey was in and out of a couple of relationships, but eventually settled down, married, and had a couple of kids. The last I heard, she was going to nursing school.I hope for the best for these kids.
Grandma and Grandpa lived next to Minnie and Amalie in Austin, Texas. Minnie and Amalie had immigrated from Mexico fairly recently and spoke very little English, but that didn’t hamper their friendship. Grandma and Minnie had coffee every morning, chatting over recipes, patterns, housework, and their shared garden plot.. It didn’t matter that Grandma spoke not a word of Spanish and Minnie knew little English. They’d check out each other’s tomatoes, peppers, and flowers, chattering like nobody’s business. Though I was a small child when we visited there, I remember fondly that Minnie trusted me push her pretty, black-eyed baby around the yard in her stroller.I was so proud to be a big girl.
Sometimes I followeed Grandpa and Amalie around as they smoked hand-rollled cigarettes and worked at some project in the yard or dug in the garden. One day they made me a chair by nailing two apple crates end-to-end. I sat in that chair as long as I could squeeze into it. I learned my first Spanish when Amalie hammered his finger and cursed in Spanish. Though I didn’t know Spanish, cursing in any language is cursing. I admired cursing and was always on the alert for a tasty tidbit, since I didn’t get to hear it at home.
I was intrigued at hearing Minnie and Amalie talk, my introduction to a foreign language. I’d jabber along, thinking, I was speaking Spanish, stopping periodically to ask Grandma or Minnie to interpret what I’d said for me.I wish we all got on with our neighbors so well. We shared a lovely meal of Grandma’s greens, pork chops and cornbread and Minnes’s tamales and beans one special evening. I didn’t care much for the greens, but I’ll never forget the bite of Minnie’s spicy tortillas.
In 1950, the US population was less than 150 million, yet you knew more people
then, and knew them better…
And that was good.
The average annual salary was under $3,000, yet our parents could put some
of it away for a rainy day and still live a decent life…
And that was good.
A loaf of bread cost about 15 cents and it was safe for a five year old to
skate to the store and buy one…And that was good.
Prime-Time meant I Love Lucy, Ozzie and Harriett, and Lassie. So nobody’d
ever heard of ratings or filters…And that was good. We didn’t have air-conditioning, so the windows stayed up and half a dozen
mothers ran outside when you fell off your bike…And that was good.
Your teacher was either Miss Matthews or Mr. Adkins, not Ms. Becky or Mr. Dan.
The only hazardous material you knew about was a patch of grassburrs
around the light pole at the corner…
And that was good.
Most families needed only one job, meaning Mom was home when school
let out…
And that was good.
You loved to climb into a fresh bed because sheets were dried on the
clothesline…
And that was good.
People generally lived in the same hometown with their relatives, so “child
care” meant grandparents or aunts and uncles…
And that was good.
TV was in black-and-white, but all outdoors was in glorious color…
And that was certainly good.
Your Dad knew how to adjust everybody’s carburetor, and the Dad next door
knew how to adjust all the TV knobs…
And that was very good.
Your grandma grew snap beans in the back yard and chickens behind the
garage…
And that was definitely good.
And just when you were about to do something really bad, chances were
you’d run into your Dad’s high school coach, or the nosy old lady from up
the street, or your little sister’s piano teacher, or somebody from church.
ALL of whom knew your parents’ phone number and YOUR first name…And that was good.
Mother and I ran by the garden center while we were running errands today, as any right-thinking person would. As I was strolling about, measuring the beauty of the flowers against the high cost of divorce, should I purchase any more this month, a miracle occurred. One of the vendors walked up to me and asked if I liked flowers. She cut me off before I really got started. She lived at ——Jones Street. She’d collected so many flowers she couldn’t take care of them. They were all in her yard and on her porch. Go by and get all I wanted.
“Is this a joke? What if your neighbors see me loading flowers and call the police”
“Oh, that’s no problem. Just take a picture of me and show it to them if they say anything, or tell them to call me. It will be fine.” That sounded reasonable. I snapped her picture making the peace sign and sped to _______Jones Street. The neighbors were on their doorstep watching us, probably wondering why they hadn’t been offered anything. I showed them the lady’s picture, telling them she said we could have her plants. They looked suspicious, but didn’t yell at us. The plants were gorgeous. She’d even started a couple of nice pineapples. I was thrilled to get them when I noticed we were on ______Patterson Street. We put all the plants back, explained to the neighbors, and took off.
We never did find ________Jones Street, but at least we haven’t been arrested, yet. I’ll bet that woman in the garden center is still laughing.
I got my daughter a Dalmatian for her thirteenth birthday. I do believe that was one of the biggest mistakes of my life. For about a day and a half, Annie was sweet. As soon as she got her bearings,she became a hyperactive, maniacal buzz saw, plundering and eviscerating everything in her path from shoes to the rag top on my husband’s MG, but that’s a story for another post.
At eighteen months, Annie’s hormones kicked in. Overnight, she was transformed into a nasty-tempered, sullen,farting, bitch, such a blessed relief. One day she was sitting between Bud and Mother farting up a storm. Bud and Mother each kept looking accusingly at the other, thinking surely they would eventually do the decent thing and excuse themselves.
Deciding to take her show on the road one morning, Annie decided the best thing for her to do was to tunnel under our neighbor’s back fence to pay him a call. Brian wasn’t in the yard, so she trotted into the house looking for him. He was deep in thought, sitting on the toilet, enjoying some quality time. Inspired by his wise example, Annie squatted and produced a fine example of her own. Though I didn’t see the actual event, I did get to hear about it in great detail.
Kathleen, my eighty-year old mother was snatched from sleep at three in the morning by the sound of hysterical screaming and pounding on her front door. Through the peep hole, she recognized her neighbor, a frail, single mother clutching her toddler and tiny infant, begging to come in. Mother was horrified to hear of Melinda’s rape at gunpoint, the lives of her tiny children threatened. Nonetheless, Melissa called the police and an investigation was begun. Continue reading →
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