. Boo Radley and a bag of poop

Hide and seek, Boo Radley and a bag of poop

No memoir about my childhood would be complete without mentioning my neighbors. There were many interesting people on my block. Perhaps the most misunderstood person was Miss Mitchell, who lived in the house directly across the street. She was our neighborhoods version of Boo Radley. Looking back I realize that she probably had some form of mental illness such as schizophrenia, but back then we just called her crazy. She used to scare the heck out of me when she rocked on the front porch. There is nothing strange about sitting in a rocking chair, except of course if you are facing the wall with a black blanket over your head. There were many stories told about her, my sister’s friend Jayne had said that she saw her once walking through Roslindale Square. She carried an open box of tissues with her and every few seconds she would pull the tissues out of the box and toss them flamboyantly onto the sidewalk. Again there’s nothing really evil about this but it only added to her mystique.

The authorities came and took her away once. She was gone for about six months, when she returned she was quite pleasant. We were told that she went into a mental hospital and had shock treatments. Shortly after this, she began giving piano lessons to some of the local residents. My friend Georgie Leesam took lessons from her. I’m glad my mother never signed me up because Miss Mitchell still scared me. However, I can still remember hearing Strains of Beethoven coming through my bedroom window on hot summer nights and it was lovely.

Miss Mitchell came to our door once just before Christmas and offered us a tray of dried fruit wrapped in plastic with a big red bow on it. It was a nice gesture really, but I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole. My mother wouldn’t say so, but I think she was a little apprehensive about eating it as well. Maybe it was just because it was nasty dried fruit, enhanced with red, yellow, and green food dye. When are they going to realize that nobody in their right mind ever wants to eat this stuff? Still it wouldn’t be Christmas without fruitcake, would it?

The pleasantries lasted for about a year and then Miss Mitchell was up to her old tricks again. It wasn’t until she began hurling glass jars and beer bottles off of her front steps that my father called the police. The authorities took her away again and this time she never returned.

Two doors down from our Boo Radley lived the Eagans. I felt bad for this family because they always seemed to be the recipients of neighborhood bullying. Their oldest boy Jimmy was tall, skinny and wore thick black horn rimmed glasses. This alone was enough to make you a social outcast and the brunt of practical jokes. I remember watching once as some other boys placed a paper bag filled with dog poop in front of the Eagan’s door. They rang the doorbell and scurried away to hide. Just as they suspected Jimmy came out and stepped onto the bag. Uproarious laughter followed. Jimmy had a younger sister named Christine and I used to play with her once in a while, In truth I never really cared much for Christine, I only played with her when there was no one else available. So I guess I’m no better than the bully’s with the poop. If I could apologize to her now I would, I’m sure she is a fine person.

The Leesam’s were German and their grandmother, Mrs. Fru, lived with them. She was an evil, wrinkled old shrew who used to scream at us from her bedroom window. It seemed to us that she hated children and we affectionately referred to her as Frau Fru. The Leesam’s son Georgie was my age and we often hung out together, why I subjected myself to this I don’t know. He would often back me into a corner and refuse to let me go until I kissed him. My family used to think this was cute for some reason and often teased me by singing the sixties radio classic George’s girl. Puppy love was what they called it, but for me it was simply torture. Our infamous alliance ended when Georgie invited me into his backyard clubhouse and set the thing on fire with me in it. I escaped without injury.

Down the street lived a man named John Centaro; I say he was a man, although we never really knew what age he was, because he was mentally challenged. My guess is that he was probably about thirty years old, but that didn’t bother us, he came in handy when you needed an extra person for a game of stickball or red rover. On summer nights we loved to play games like hide and seek. The entire neighborhood would get involved. We played with huge boundaries that spanned a whole city block, which was really fun because there were plenty of places to hide.

Until very recently my sister Janet still lived in the old neighborhood, I’m told that John still lives on Rexhame Street, he’s probably a hundred years old by now, but I bet he still looks the same and enjoys a good game of stickball now and then. Of course the neighborhood is not what it used to be, times have changed. Gone are the days when you could let your children roam the streets at night as far away as a whole city block. My kids are now seventeen and thirteen, but when they were younger their boundaries spanned two doors in one direction and two doors in the other. I lived in the fear that some weirdo would snatch them. It makes you long for a simpler time doesn’t it?