Every year during April my Dads cherry trees start their luminescent blooming...and while they always inspire me to smile, the last few years I cannot help but ponder Ms. Reeve, a lady who made it her habit to come and sit at the end of the driveway for hours on end and seemingly stare at those cherry trees.
I first met Ms. Reeve when I was no more than 5 or 6, alone in the house. There was a knock on the door, and when I opened up I was completely unprepared for what was in front of me. A little lady with a shock of white hair, wearing a skirt in the dead of winter, boots with trash bags for socks, the socks on her hands, three or four jackets in varying states of disrepair piled on top of one another...and a lone tea bag dangling from one hand. 'May I make a cup of tea?' she inquired. Stupefied and utterly speechless, I could do no more than open the door and step aside. She said no more, walked in the to kitchen and put the pot on. A few minutes later, the water boiled, and since I was hiding in a different room, the next thing I heard without seeing of course, was a glass breaking...this was enough to bring me out of seclusion, and what I saw was Ms. Reeve, again holding her tea bag, though now dripping with hot water on the kitchen floor above the broken glass...she had poured the water into a glass, not a mug. Without changing expression, she politely asked if I would boil more water for her. Apparently she decided she wasn't going to move while I did this for her, so for the next five minutes she stood there waiting for the next pot to boil, unwavering in her desire to remain stock still. I suppose she thought more tea would stay in the bag if she didn't move. Luckily for me I was aware of the benefits of using a mug, so she succeeded in having her cup of tea. Never said more than thank you, either,and left as quietly as she came. Naturally, when Mom and Dad came in the house, I had some questions for them...and soon learned Ms. Reeve was our neighbor. My parents aren't exactly legendary story tellers in their own right, so I was left to imagine her riding around on a broomstick in her spare time...that is, until the first snow came, and Dad went to plow her out, with me in tow. Her house was secluded, and by house I mean a building with a roof on it. No electricity, windows boarded up, not even a fire burning. For a 5 year old this was living proof we had witches in our midst. And then she came down to offer Dad compensation for plowing her out...of course, Dad wouldn't dream of accepting, but when I saw the rolled up pile of money in her hand, even I knew he was loony for not taking such an amount. I think it could have paid for my college tuition.
As the years went by, her story came out in bits and pieces. After many years I learned she grew up in Runnymede, the nicest farm in Chester County. I was flabbergasted to see her living in such abject poverty, and made it a personal quest to find out her story in greater detail. All I could really discover were stories that cemented her place as community freak. Driving around with a dead dog in her back seat for weeks, during summer!, until a few folks could trick her out of her car long enough to extract the remains...she never had much, if anything to say when we passed her out riding. All we ever seemed to get was this vacant stare. One day I was down in Greenville at my favorite bookstore when I was about 22, and walking around a corner I ran head first in to a pile of books being held by someone behind them. Luckily I avoided knocking the pile down, but not without grabbing the pile of books. The person behind them must have thought I was trying to abscond with them, for a struggle ensued to reclaim ownership...and though I was merely trying to avoid spilling them, that is exactly what happened. Lo and behold, it was Ms. Reeve on the other side of the books. Needless to say, I was dumbfounded yet again. From seeing her in a bookstore, or away from her house, or having so many books in her possession, I'm not quite sure, but nary a word escaped my mouth as I bent down to scoop them up...until she peered at me in her singular way and inquired, 'you're Bruce's son aren't you?' I fessed up, and we then proceeded to exchange pleasantries like the oldest of family friends. She knew I had started riding races, that my sister was doing great winning as Dad was.
I asked her about the load of books she was buying, and she told me she knew every person the books were about. Personally knew them. Ms. Reeve hadn't changed in appearance even slightly over the fifteen or so years since my first encounter, nor had her choice of clothing. Skirt, trash bags for socks, socks on hands, jacket upon jacket...
I'm always reminded of Ms. Reeve when those cherry trees blossom every spring. I wonder if I'll ever hear the real story, the whole story. But now what I find myself thinking is, when I'm old and gray, wrinkled and shriveled, will I scare the bejesus out of some unsuspecting little 5 year old by asking for a cup of tea?