I quickly took the card to the counter and plopped down my quarter. Wilson's stories - one she had attended when she was my age. It was almost like the one in one of Mrs. Just then, something different caught my eye: a Christmas card with an old country church in the woods on its cover.
But within seconds of that warm quarter hitting my hand, I was out the door and half running, half sliding my way down the hill to the candy store - ready to spend my fortune. I think I said, "Thank you," at least I hope I did. "What's more important than a friend at Christmas?" she said - then handed me the shiniest quarter I'd ever seen. Wilson, I can't take any money this time. Wilson suddenly looked at me and said, "Well, you must be itching to get back out to that snow." And then she reached for her purse. She offered me a cup of hot chocolate that morning, so I decided the snow could wait.Īfter a few minutes of chatting, Mrs. She had no tree, no stockings hung, no festive lights and I couldn't see any presents anywhere. I knew that from some of the stories she had told. Her husband passed away before we had moved next door and all of her relatives lived in other states far away. Then she added, "Put the bag on the table." "Oh, yes, come on in," she said with that grandmotherly cheerfulness. The chain rattled and the door creaked open only slightly. Wilson's slippers making their way to the door. I rang the doorbell and listened for the slow, weary shuffle of Mrs.
This would be my Christmas present to her. I would try to refuse, because my mother told me to, but she insisted and I found myself in the candy store at the bottom of the hill moments later.Īs I took the small bag of groceries next door, I decided that this time I would not accept any money. Wilson always gave me a nickel for bringing her groceries, no matter how much was in the bag. She told wonderful stories about her life, and she'd always say things like, "When I was your age. She let the neighborhood children eat the grapes from a vine in her back yard and I liked talking with her - actually, I liked listening to her. She was somewhat crippled from arthritis and could only walk slowly, usually with a cane.īut even though she was old, crippled and didn't care for baseball, I liked Mrs. For quite some time now, my mom had been picking up odds and ends for our 75-year-old neighbor who lived alone. When we had finished, she said, "Curt, here are Mrs. Our station wagon pulled into the driveway just then, and my mother called me over to help with the groceries.
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