I loved playing in the back yard under the ash tree whose branches dipped to the ground forming a dappled green shelter from the summer sun and most summer showers. However, the magic happened on an expanse of lawn between our house and the neighbor's. Only a narrow strip was actually our property but it was planted with Bridal Wreath, whose flowers looked like fairy bouquets, a thorny red Barberry that looked almost artificial, and grape hyacinths, those inverted little bunches of grapes. Things that warranted the close inspection and imagination of a five-year-old. The lawn also hid a sweep of white violets that drew my attention and that of my Mother who suddenly appeared to warn me away from the neighbor's lawn.

That was when we met Miss Wheeler who came to her front porch to say I was welcome to play there and pick all the white violets I wanted. As spring eased into summer, the lattice fence that stretched between the backs of the two houses became covered with Virginia Creeper and though the spring flowers all disappeared Miss Wheeler's house became hidden by tall multicolored hollyhocks. I was entranced having never seen anything so tall or in so many different colors.

Again Miss Wheeler appeared. Somewhere in her sixties; she had steel gray hair, gold rimmed glasses (they wouldn't come back in style for another decade), black laced up shoes, an apron over her gray dress and the soft scent of Avon Rich Moisture Cream about her. "You may make all the dolls you like." When she realized I didn't understand, she came off the porch to show me how to make bright little dolls from the flowers.

Soon we were both sitting in the grass, putting together an entire wedding party. A bride in white with pastel bridesmaids, and deep purple for the groom and minister. I'm not sure which of us had more fun as we worked on those dolls, but we made fast friends that day.

I learned many things from Miss Wheeler: all about four leaf clovers and where to look for them, basic piano skills, we played "Lexicon," a card game that preceded "Scrabble" by a number of years, and "Monopoly" where she patiently waited for me to do the math. We baked and had tea and, when I was older I helped her with the cleaning.

It was well known in the neighborhood Miss Wheeler was a fragile woman. Prone to depression in the years when medical science was even more crude and clueless than it is now, she had undergone shock treatments in her younger days. I think she lived with a fear of waking under that cloud of hopelessness and that, along with the opinion everyone held, caused most of that fragility. (self fulfilling prophecy)

Things did not end happily in the neighborhood for Miss Wheeler. The cousin she shared her home with had suffered an aneurysm and their family decided Miss Wheeler could never live alone. My parents despaired over the thoughtless way a nephew, who had never visited her in the years we lived next door, arrived to bundle her to the other side of the country and no doubt a nursing home. Then, refusing help from anyone, he cleaned out the house tossing antiques into the trash and selling heirlooms.

I have decided that Miss Wheeler enjoyed her last days, seeing a part of the country that was not familiar to her. It gives me comfort and I remember her with love when I use her sewing basket, clip an embroidery thread with her silver scissors, or sit in one of her dining room chairs. I think it would make her smile to know her next door neighbors felt enough righteous indignation to openly retrieve the "trash" left in the alley and put it away for me to use one day. I hope she thought of me with love too.