Kitty the cat lay dead on Lemon Street, and I carried her to Margot’s curbside. Last year at this time I wrote about this serendipitous event that coincided with Queen Elizabeth’s royal funeral. I was heart broken for Jasmine, her owner, but Margot seemed nonplussed, not even curious about the gorgeous feline near her back door.
Maybe something else was on her mind.
Now I miss Margot walking past my window as I write at my desk. I could count on her and her little black terrier Ozzie heading off into the park most mornings, him leading the way tugging at his leash.
Margot was utterly private: a retired psychoanalyst with a slight German accent in her late 70s. We were never invited into her home. That’s not a complaint, merely her prerogative. We were glad to see her at a 100th birthday party we threw for our house in 2011. Yeah, we do that kind of thing.
Not one to socialize, last October she sent over a card, chocolates, and a bottle of French wine to my backyard birthday. She said she wasn’t feeling well. On her dog walks since then Margot would often stop to stretch and breathe. Then in July Ozzie was shipped off to her daughter an hour away. “I just feel terrible” she once told me as she labored to keep moving.
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The only time she asked us for help was a few months before she died. She had locked herself out of her home (uncharacteristically) and sat in my library flustered while I dialed up a locksmith. The only time I got beyond her front porch was soon after that. I walked over to check on her. Her living room reminded me of my Becker grandparents’ style: Mid-century class, relics from trips abroad, and small original works of art.
Her row home is the cornerstone of our block, surrounded by tasteful shrubbery and flower beds that her gardener still tends. Green and white striped awnings adorn her windows like preppy sun visors. A beauty shop leases a street level studio that opens out to Lemon Street near the spot where I deposited Kitty for her grieving owners.
Margot had been gone five days before we learned she didn’t make it back from a final ambulance trip to the hospital. Neighbors, newer than us but closer by, got word from her daughter. They then texted us.
So, Margot, the clockwork reminder of all that is vital and transitory in our humanity, had left the block for good. Her history we’ll never know. In fact, we found no obituary to read nor heard of any memorial to attend. Her legacy, though, is one of kindness, presence, and unobtrusive neighborliness.
She was known, even if she wasn’t well known. And we lived under her caring eye. Privacy is valued and practiced in various ways in a town. That’s how they’re designed to function. It takes all types to give towns their character.
It’s what I love most about town life. As the ancient sidewalk kids’ song goes
We played the flute for you, and you did not dance;
we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.1
There’s a time to dance and a time to mourn. So much depends on recognizing the tune.
Along College Avenue we mourn for Margot, the silent dirge droning whenever we round her corner. The dance goes on, too. Hudson and Basil, the five and six year old block vigilantes armed with chalk, bubbles, and improvised swords joust the hours away until their moms or dads call them home.
The Gospel of Matthew 11:16, English Standard Version.
News From Town
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Stay tuned for a digest of a series I’ve written for Lancaster Newspapers (LNP). My column is called Sideways, and it definitely swerves, sideswipes, and meanders through many topics. I can’t republish them here, so I’ll just send the links and goods reason to read each one. 🤠
Soon it’ll be October, and I’ll be introducing you to some spooky stuff from my personal effects. Go ahead, use your imagination. 👻