![\"lew_sm.jpg\"](\"https:\/\/mainecourse.com\/mt\/archives\/images\/lew_sm.jpg\")
<\/p>\nI answered the phone yesterday evening and it was Florence.
\n\u00c3\u00acWhat day is it? Saturday or Sunday\u00c3\u00ae? <\/p>\n
When I brought her milk and Windex this afternoon, she told me that she waited for the school bus last Friday. Not to hop aboard but to hand out Halloween candy to all the children. She laughed as she said she would have to do it again, this Friday. <\/p>\n
The problem, her dead transistor radio, rested on the kitchen table with the batteries exposed. I imagine her listening to the all news station that loops through the traffic, weather, date and time, endlessly. Work and the Boston Globe orient me. <\/p>\n
A month ago, I was visiting with my neighbor, Mary, not as old as Florence but the victim of the same cruel joke that nature plays on women. Departed husband. Mary wanted to show me her new boiler, except that when we got to the basement, the rickety thing was still there, rust at the seams, but with a new pump. When we returned to her kitchen and as I was about to say goodbye, she asked me, \u00c3\u00acDo you want to see my new boiler?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
On my way home from Flo\u00c3\u00ads I stopped at Dolly\u00c3\u00ads, Mary\u00c3\u00ads next door neighbor. Dolly had called about her wobbly front porch railing and wanted it fixed before Halloween. <\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acMatthew said he loved those orange drops.\u00c3\u00ae
\nShe spoke as if she had seen him last night. <\/p>\n
I tried to express my concern about her friend\u00c3\u00ads memory when she stopped me.<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acI\u00c3\u00adm going to be a grandmother…or is it a great grandmother?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acWho\u00c3\u00ads having the baby?\u00c3\u00ae <\/p>\n
She thought for a moment, \u00c3\u00acTory.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
Over the years I had heard many stories about Tory, her blonde grand daughter. <\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acThat would make you a great grandmother.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acOh\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acDolly, remind me, what is your daughter\u00c3\u00ads name?\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acIt\u00c3\u00ads…. Just a minute, I know it. Oh isn\u00c3\u00adt this silly. It\u00c3\u00ads…let\u00c3\u00ads see, Smitty…\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
Smitty was her husband. He died when Matthew turned five, eleven years ago. I remember his funeral and how I slipped into the white church off Main St., after everyone was seated. I wasn\u00c3\u00adt sure I should be there until Dolly smiled at me. <\/p>\n
\u00c3\u00acDebbie, that\u00c3\u00ads it, Debbie.\u00c3\u00ae<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Smitty, the illustrator, in plaid, with Dolly at his side. Tulum
\nwatches Matt following me up the ladder.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I answered the phone yesterday evening and it was Florence. \u00c3\u00acWhat day is it? Saturday or Sunday\u00c3\u00ae? When I brought her milk and Windex this afternoon, she told me that she waited for the school bus last Friday. Not to … Continue reading