Friday, July 18, 2008


Ms. Tuckett’s yard was never to be played on.  No cutting through to Jimmy Dowling’s.  No bike riding.  No playing in her yard.  It was never worth playing on when her gold, tan Caddy wasn’t there anyway.  One forceful game of ‘Swing the Statue’ would leave you bruised and bleeding from the quill-like grass that she’d obviously planted in that yard of hers.  There was a purpose to it all.  The oblong way her house was positioned on the corner of O’Hara and Bloom.  The strange, bumpy cement in her driveway.  And more specifically, that hard, sharp grass.


When her curlered head would poke out of the back window, she wasn’t scolding us, she was warning us.  But was that it?  Was she just looking out for our safety because she knew that her grass could potentially bleed us dry?  I don’t know.


What I do know is that during a nightly game of ‘Spotlight,’ hers was the only yard that nobody would ever check.  It’s where I always hid out and stared hypnotized at that white glow that burned from her bedroom.


I bet she never slept in those curlers.



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