When I was about 4 or 5, I lived out in the country in Monroe, Georgia. The house we were renting sat on a huge plot of land, with a cotton field behind it and a swamp beyond that. Getting to the house across the road required quite a trek. And though there were no neighbors on one side of the house, there was an old house on the other side, though it, too, was quite a ways off.
There weren’t any kids living anywhere near us. I had two younger sisters, but they were no good for hanging out and playing. My youngest sister was a new-born and my other sister was completely occupied with being a boy. (She insisted we all call her “David.” I don’t know what to tell ya on that one.)
Anyhoo, in the far-away house to the side of ours, lived Mr. and Mrs. Melvin. They were both born before rocks and I think they may have had great-grandchildren older than me. I wasn’t allowed to cross the road alone, but I could wander all over our side of the road by myself. Mr. and Mrs. Melvin’s house became a natural destination.
They were typical country folk, and spent most of their time just sitting on their front porch, watching the day go by. When the occasional car drove past, they would wave, as country folk are wont to do. They didn’t talk a lot, unless they had something particular to say. They ate when they were hungry, and never out of boredom. They probably had a television, but they didn’t turn it on unless there was a program they wanted to see. When it was cold outside, they sat in their living room while the day went by. Their life was simple. And for some reason, they accepted me as their friend. Which was good, because they were the only friends I had on that lonesome road.
As it turned out, Mr. and Mrs. Melvin were good friends for a little girl to have. I learned a lot from them. For instance, they taught me to keep my distance from snapping turtles. I learned that on the day they had two giant turtles in their front yard. Friends, I do mean giant, as I could have ridden those monsters. I watched Mr. Melvin place a hoe handle in front of one of those big boys, and wouldn’t you know it – the turtle snapped that piece of wood right in two. In the end, those turtles ended up in a delicious stew that I remember to this day. Nobody in my family thought turtle stew was a very good idea, but Mr. and Mrs. Melvin showed me the light. And it was good.
On many a hot afternoon, Mrs. Melvin gave me Vanilla Ice Milk as a cool treat. It was “ice milk” and not “ice cream” because ice cream was too expensive. These were poor people (just like us), and they lived within their means. And while I wouldn’t buy “ice milk” for anything now, I loved it then. I associated the taste with my old friends. And I accepted that gift each time Mrs. Melvin offered.
Their old front porch was also the sight of one of the greatest learning experiences of my kid life: tying my shoe laces. On a still summer day, I sat on the edge of the porch, swinging my legs over the side. Mr. Melvin was in his rocker, about 5 feet from me, near the front door of the house. He never got up to come over to me, and I never got up to go over to him. He just sat there, patiently, and told me what to do. Over and over again, I followed his directions. He didn’t lose patience with me and he didn’t talk down to me, either (no “the rabbit jumps over the fence” sort of talk). Maybe that’s why I stayed calm and didn’t lose patience with myself. I just listened and learned. Listened and learned. Listened and learned. And in the end, I got it.
By the time we moved away from Monroe, I was 6 years old. I don’t really remember my goodbyes with the Melvins, but I’m sure we shared words. Truth is, they weren’t just my friends. I was also theirs. All those hours I spent with the Melvins provided company for all of us. They got to teach me about life, and I got to teach them about, well, I suppose, a little girl’s mind.
I won’t lie – all this reminiscing has gotten me choked up, so I’ll close this post. But know this: I always carry with me the memories of snapping turtles and cold vanilla ice milk. And each and every time I tie my shoes, a part of me is on that front porch – watching the day go by – with two old people who were my friends.
I’m still listening and learning…