I Remember Mrs. Reed

I remember Mrs. Reed, friend to a little girl who lived next door. With few children my age in the neighborhood, on any rainy day I could be found jumping through puddles in Mrs. Reed's blacktop driveway - only blacktop drive on the block. How I'd run up and down, squishing puddles, clutching my little umbrella having the time of my life.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Reed were most particular about their finely manicured lawn. We had grass; the Reeds had a lawn. By far the best grass in my little world, I skipped barefoot through it cutting across the putting green to points beyond. However, cutting through the Reeds' yard was a huge no-no for children of all ages in the neighborhood. All, that is, except for me. They both had a soft spot for me, and I for them. I never got yelled at, but I also kept a pretty good eye out when tromping across the sacred ground.

Every single evening from spring through fall, Mr. Reed meticulously watered every square inch of his front yard. Afterward, he lit up his big cigar, reclined halfway on his front porch swing, and swung with one foot dangling to the ground. Mr. Reed never swung back and forth; he swung sideways, slowly and methodically, until dusk descended and the lightning bugs twinkled the night. Spotting one, I'd race to catch it, then tuck it safely away inside the cleaned out mayonnaise jar with holes poked in the lid so the little buggers could breathe. On and on I ran through the damp lawn. Did life get any better for a 5-year-old?

Yes, it actually did...when the chimes of the approaching ice cream truck could be heard amid the squeals of laughter. All went silent. An exodus of children frantically fleeing to their homes in search of nickels and dimes before the ice cream man officially stopped. Banana and sky blue popsicles were my favorites. Added bonus to sky blue: blue lips, blue teeth, blue tongue. Just call me Baby Smurf.

On especially hot afternoons, a sprinkler twirled the coldest, finest spray all around the Reeds' backyard. Running through sprinklers was forbidden at my house. If I ran through a sprinkler I'd get polio. Oh my, what is it about that forbidden fruit to a child's young mind? I loved sprinklers, and I sneaked in under that cascading water as many times as possible, and I never got polio.

In the morning, Mrs. Reed and I would walk back to her old-fashioned red climbing rose bush which clung to a white arched trellis. And we'd pick roses together. Even taking the trash out was fun at Mrs. Reed's. I hated drying dishes at my own house across the blacktop drive, but doing dishes at Mrs. Reed's became magical. Perhaps it had something to do with the can opener-combination-ice crusher? This new-fangled contraption hung above the sink, and I thought it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen. Anytime I wanted to, I could walk over to the freezer, grab a few ice cubes and crush 'em to my heart's content.

Back in Mrs. Reed's bedroom she had every conceivable shade of Avon's tiny white lipstick samples with which to paint my face. Way neater than sky blue. Next I'd adorn myself with pieces from her extensive collection of costume jewelry. I was positively captivated by the fact that due to an accident when she was younger, Mrs. Reed was left without any eyebrows, and had to pencil them in each day. Remarkable!

Oftentimes Mrs. Reed would drag out her small phonograph and stack of children's 45s complete with accompanying color picture book, and we'd listen over and over to the same stories. One story, which was my absolute favorite, is so completely politically incorrect today that I dare not mention the title. But what did we know back then? It was a just a goofy story.

Back to the blacktop drive where I'd pirouette Mother May I? steps and Red Light/Green Light starts and stops with little friends. We'd have to move out of the way when Mrs. Reed needed to go somewhere. I mean, it was her drive, after all. And there she'd go in her little dark blue Corvair. Only person I ever knew who owned a Corvair. It simply added to her mystique.

We moved away when I was 14, keeping in touch with Christmas cards and the occasional visit. I missed her. But she never left my heart. A few weeks ago Mr. Reed passed away. He was 91. At the funeral home I first glimpsed Mrs. Reed's son who ushered me over to greet his mother. He asked me, "Do you remember my mom?"

Do I remember your mom?

"Yes, Dave, I remember your mom."

~ Maureen :)