She looked the same every time I saw her. Fortunately it wasn't very often because I was afraid of her. I grew up in the country and she was my neighbor. I was probably too old to keep going out for dinner with my parents every Friday night, but I was too scared to stay home alone in case Mrs. Farley came over.
The scariest part was that she always came to the back of the house. Rather than walk down her long driveway to the street and then back up my long driveway, she cut through the woods that separated our houses. There was no path and it took a bit of effort to push back the brush and nettles, but she always showed up at the door of the screened-porch looking like she'd just stepped out of a 1970's commercial for some sparkling dishwashing liquid.
She knocked on the screen door. It had an intimate sound, as if she were already in the house. Fortunately there was a little hook which kept the door locked....as "locked" as you can keep a screen door. The lock was only there to keep the door from blowing in the wind and letting flies in. It wouldn't have done much to keep Mrs. Farley out.
If I'd been making noise when I heard the knock, there was no escape. I couldn't pretend I wasn't home and hide against the rough-sawn cedar wall where the dates and measurements of me and my brothers were recorded in pencil. That was the only place in the house where you couldn't be seen from a window, in the reflection of a window, or in the reflection of a door with high gloss stain. That was the place to go when someone rang the doorbell. When I ran there for cover I stayed until my mom and dad came home.
I'm sure Mrs. Farley knew that I was home alone when she came. I wonder if she knew I was scared to death of her. Once she brought over what seemed like half of her lilac bush. I could tell she was a little upset when I crushed the flowers squeezing the giant bouquet through the tiny opening I allowed in the screen door. As she bent down to retrieve the fallen sprigs I quietly relatched the little hook.
In retrospect, I'm not sure what I was afraid of. She was just an old lady with bright red lipstick who thought I was the one that had stretched out the elastic in her long underwear. That's the kind of stuff she came over to tell me. She was sure it was me that had dug the tunnel under the woods so I could sneak in and wreak havoc on her elastic. If I'd had my wits about me I would've asked her why she hadn't used the tunnel to get to my back door instead of cutting through the woods. Instead, protected by nothing more than a screen door, I just stood there listening to all the damage I'd caused.
I was afraid of the Rooster Lady and she was afraid of the Elastic Stretcher, when the real culprit was Time. Time had taken its toll on the elasticity of both her mind and her long underwear. It's scary when Time sneaks up on you and you're not prepared. I'm trying to learn to spend it wisely, enjoy it, keep track of it, share it and not waste it and then there's nothing to be afraid of. I have to stop worrying about it and realize it's a gift. And who's ever heard of a fear of gifts?
The common man is not concerned about the passage of time, the man of talent is driven by it.
--Schopenhauer
