By Any Other Name

I grew up in a small neighborhood...a place where time stands still.  I go back there to visit my parents at least once a week, and it looks exactly the same as I remember from my childhood.  It's one thing in my life that has always been a constant, a lighthouse showing me the way when I falter.  And, boy, have I faltered...we all do, really; it's just that not everyone is fortunate enough to have such a solid connection to their past.

In this small neighborhood, there are multi-million-dollar lakefront mansions.  There are snobs and other such rich folk.  Look past the grandeur, and you'll see the horse farm, and - further down - the street that turns to the right, away from the lake, where the real bonds are made. 

Turn down that street, look immediately to your left, and you'll see where one of my childhood best friends and I spent hours upon hours playing - and repeatedly beating - Super Mario Brothers 3 on the old-school Nintendo.  In that same house, we baked the most excellent cookies with her mom while singing "Saturday In The Park" at the top of our lungs.  Avid readers of the "Babysitter's Club" series, we started our very own odd jobs club in her bedroom, and distributed fliers to the neighborhood.  When we didn't get any bites with that, we started "The Talking Moose," our neighborhood paper.  Things weren't cool or nifty with us: they were "plaid."

Now, continue a little further...start up the first small hill.  The next house on the left is where another best friend lived when I was young.  She had an older sister and a younger brother, and they had a Slip-N-Slide.  We must have asked her younger brother a thousand times what color it was, and he unfailingly answered, "Lellow."

Same house: next family.  Two girls and one boy.  I babysat them in exchange for piano lessons from their Army sergeant mother.  She had beautiful fingernails, and she was one tough broad.  She ran a tight ship and made the most disgusting fried zucchini you could possibly imagine.  So many stories about this family...like the two-and-a-half-year-old little boy squatting in the street because he "had to go poopie."

Two of the most extraordinary people I've ever met live two houses down on the same side of the road. They both survived Nazi Germany.  He was used as a stud to continue the Aryan race.  I've seen the tattoos on his forearms that branded him as such in the concentration camp.  He was kind enough to tell me his story for a school project when I was younger, and for that I will be forever grateful.  The older I get, the more I begin to see how hard that must have been for him.  On Halloween last year, his wife was cooking the most delicious-smelling soup when we came to her door begging for candy to put in The Princess's basket.  We were invited in for supper.

Now, go kitty-corner across the street, halfway up the hill, to the house with the "Old Hunter Crossing" sign tacked to the tree in the middle of the circular drive; stand there for a moment; take it in.  Here, two of the most wonderful people in the world spent many, many happy years together.  They raised children and witnessed miracle after miracle with their grandchildren.  They saw their son grow up and realize his dreams of becoming a big-time Hollywood director.  The year he received six Oscars for Forrest Gump, there was a huge party in our neighborhood.  The tables were set with film reels and other such memorabilia...it was Tinseltown all the way.  Al and Rose beamed and teared up as their son walked that red carpet and proved to the world that he belonged there in Hollywood.  He had done it, and they were so proud.

Al passed on a few years back, but Rose wasn't ready to go just yet.  Did I ever tell you about Aunt Rose the Candy Lady?  Growing up, every kid in the neighborhood knew Aunt Rose.  Every Saturday morning, up until noon, you could walk up and ring her doorbell in exchange for a piece of candy.  She just loved handing it out and seeing the smiles on our faces.  But she was no fool...though many of us tried, no one ever got two in one day.

The last time I saw Rose was on Halloween.  She had oxygen tubes in her nose, and she seemed frail, but that wasn't enough to stop her.  Decked out in her queen garb, complete with tiara and magic wand, Rose held court in her living room.  A miniature "haunted house" was set up for the kids to enjoy (The Princess loved the jar of fake eyeballs that lit up and moved around, making sloshy noises, when she pushed a button on top), but there was no candy.  This year, Rose gave out dollars.  But only if the kiddo did a dance or told her a joke.  The deal was one dollar for one smile.

Last week, Rose passed away.  She's with Al now, grinning down at us and still - I'm sure of it - wagging her finger at me and SuperBro for picking those tulips for Mom (bulbs and all).  I never saw her once without a smile upon that gorgeous face of hers.  And I know I'm not the only one.  The funeral home was absolutely jam-packed for her wake on Sunday.

I'm skipping other parts of the neighborhood, but three doors further down the street, on the same side as Rose and Al's place, is where I grew up.  Three doors down from the Zemeckis family.  Yes, that Zemeckis family.  But the thing is, until I was probably twelve or so, I didn't know that Aunt Rose wasn't my real aunt. 

And her deal on Halloween...a dollar for a smile?  Well, if that's the case, she earned at least a cool million from me over the years.

We love you, Aunt Rose.  Give Uncle Al a big hug for us, and please tell him we're sorry about his prized tulip bulbs.