I take my dogs for a walk around my neighborhood every evening around five. Almost every time, I see a woman working in her front garden. 

“Beautiful garden,” I say.

“Thank you, comin’ along,” she replies.

I noticed the house was run down and recently had outdoor ramps installed, which led me to believe an older person was living there. 

On this night, she wasn’t in her garden but instead out walking a dog. All the dogs exploded viciously, barking as if to say, “You! Get off my street!” 

“It’s my street. You get off! Grrrr!” 

“Sorry,” I shouted over them.

“It’s okay,” she shouted back, “I’m fostering her. Barks at everything. Are you worried about the coyotes?”

Wild coyotes have created quite a stir by eating rats, wild rabbits, and now pets.

“Yes,” I replied.

She continued shouting, even though the dogs had stopped barking, and then caught herself. “I’m Mary. I’ve moved here to take care of my father. He’s 96.”

“Does he have all his marbles?” A commonly asked question.

“Yes, but he needs help. I live in Switzerland. I’m afraid to return home because I’d be so far away if something happened. I grew up in this house.”

“Wow, me too. I live up the street.”

Wait a minute, I thought, as did she, “We’re about the same age. Do you remember Joni Smalls?” Mary asked me.

I allowed the marble inside my head to roll around while jogging my memory. “Holy cow! Yes. I haven’t thought about her in years.”

Mary proceeded. “I remember she always wore pink. She was very nice, and so was her mom, but her dad was mean. They once asked me to stay for dinner, and when I agreed, he grumbled and said, ‘Why are we feeding another month?’ Can you believe that?”

“Yeah, he was kinda grumpy.” 

“Did you know the Monroe boys at the top? They were super smart, and John was so cute. Their clothes were dirty like their mom never did laundry. They went to Poly on a full scholarship.”

“I guess so,” I said.

“I did. True, it’s a big house. What about Sandra?” I asked.

“We went to school together, and she always got straight ‘As’ and would rub my nose in it. My dad would say, ‘Why can’t you be more like Sandra?’ I just found out her husband had an affair and had a child out of it. Now this all “Cs” girl is looking pretty good.”

We laughed.

The more she spoke, the more I tried to bring young Mary back into focus. Suddenly a light went on.

“Remember that vacant lot?” Mary said, “This girl lived across the street from that lot. I went to her house one day, and she had a brand-new bed spread that was yellow with daisies, and she told me not to sit on it and get it dirty because her mom had just bought it for her. Her name was Leslie. After that, I didn’t want to play with her.”

Aha! Now, I remembered little snotty Mary—that girl who gossiped about everybody. Here I was stuck in a conversation with her decades later. However, I didn’t remember that yellow bedspread with daisies.

There was an awkward pause while older Leslie and Mary stared at each other.

“Well. You have a nice day.” Mary and her dog briskly walked away.

“You too.” 

I went in the opposite direction.

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