When I was in the first grade we upgraded to a doublewide mobile home that was closer to her property than the red house had been. I would often walk over to her Airstream and talk to her through the door. As far as I was concerned, her yard was my yard. There were no fences, and Eleanor had no problem with me playing around the semi-trailer and derelict cars that littered her un-mowed lawn. Anytime I was in her yard I could hear the multitude of doves she kept as pets cooing from inside her trailer.
My parents were usually less than thrilled with me whenever they caught me over there; this was Florida and rattlesnakes were a realistic fear. When they told her they would cut her grass, “I like my jungle!” she would say. My mom and dad didn’t want her snakes inevitably migrating into our yard and when out of desperation they mowed it anyway she would insist on giving them some money for their efforts.
Eleanor didn’t seem to have any problems with snakes, or any form of life for that matter. They were all God’s creations as far as she was concerned. Once, a tiny scrub pine began to grow right next to the window of the Airstream’s back bedroom. My parents offered to cut it down as it would eventually cause structural damage to the trailer. Eleanor wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s my lonesome pine. It’s like me. I love it.” Maybe she felt that her life was worth less than that of the snakes, trees, and grass. Or, maybe she didn’t anticipate being around long enough for the nature she let grow up around her to cause her any real problems.
I found Eleanor more interesting than most of the kids at school. Through the door of the Airstream we would talk about Unsolved Mysteries, space aliens, and science fiction movies. She was the only person I knew (aside from my best friend Heather, another Unsolved Mysteries fan) who thought there might actually be aliens and ghosts. I loved hearing all the old science fiction movies she’s seen and couldn’t wait to see them myself. The Day the Earth Stood Still was each of our favorites.
As I got older I told her about the boys I liked although she would often get their names confused.
“I saw your boyfriend, Brady at Miller’s last night.”
“No,” I would laugh. “He’s not my boyfriend. He’s just a friend in the high school band. He’s too old for me to date. I want to date William.”
“Oh yes, William, George’s friend?”
“Yeah. If we were together, we could double with George and Heather.”
Eleanor seemed to be interested in what I was saying and she didn’t have any compunction about the fact that I was 12 years old and talking about going on double dates with boys in the tenth grade. Her husband had been 37 years older than her. In her eyes, William and I were practically the same age and in my childhood, this view of age differences was the norm. My dad was 29 years older than my mom. I never considered that there was anything unusual about setting my sights on high school boys while I was in the sixth grade. Just not Brady; he was a senior, after all.
“It’s kind of funny, George plays the trombone and Heather plays the clarinet, so they are in different sections: brass and woodwinds. I play the trumpet and William plays the saxophone, so I’m brass and he’s woodwinds. It would make more sense for me to date George and for Heather to date William, but Heather and George are in love and I love William whether he likes me or not. He’s got the most beautiful eyes.”
Such is the logic of a sixth grade girl, and Eleanor never questioned it.
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