Ed and Millie

Ed and Millie never fought. I came to this conclusion about my neighbors on Westervelt Avenue as I swirled a piece of my waffle into a pool of maple syrup and watched, for the hundredth time, as Ed backed his dark blue Pontiac out of the garage and up his driveway onto the driveway behind his.

On school days my breakfast time coincided with Ed’s departure for work. From my place at the kitchen table, I’d watch as Ed then rolled the car forward and began the turn onto the access road that would exit onto Mace Avenue. There at the turn he would pause, smile in the direction of his kitchen window, and wave. I never saw him fail to do this.

He and Millie must never fight, because if they had just had an argument would he still wave and smile?

Ed and Millie, at this point, had passed middle age by a fair distance, but they were so active and energetic that no one considered them old. Ed, however, liked to say he was “as old as Methuselah.”

Millie, petite and slender, had alabaster skin that crinkled into networks of deep lines. Her silver-gray eyes matched her hair. Ed’s gray hair was all but gone at the top. A tall and sturdy man, he had laugh lines etched into his face and blue-gray eyes that smiled behind wire-framed glasses.  His neat-as-a-pin appearance, even while wearing work clothes, gave him a dignified aspect.

Like other stay-at-home wives of the 1960s, Millie had a daily routine. One day a week, soon after the wave from the window, she would leave the house by the back door with her collapsible shopping cart for the short walk to Eastchester Road and the Associated Food Store. An hour later she would return, towing the cart crammed with brown grocery bags.

On other mornings I’d see her in the backyard hanging the wash on the freestanding clothesline. When I was very young and confined to my fenced-in backyard, she would sing out across our side-by-side driveways: “I love you, a bushel and a peck,” and I’d sing back, “A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.” This would be our standard greeting for years to come, and Millie would often add that she loved me before I was born.

Whatever Millie’s workload for the day, she would complete enough of it by early afternoon for a stretch of free time for herself. This she typically spent in the living room, specifically in the elbow of the sectional sofa where various projects and pastimes awaited her attention. Beside her sat her knitting bag stuffed with colorful yarn, knitting needles jutting out like TV antenna ears. Neatly arranged on the coffee table within easy reach lay the Daily News, a book of crossword puzzles, two sharpened pencils, the TV Guide, a box of tissues, and a box of assorted chocolates that never seemed to have more than a few pieces missing. It was a scene of organized clutter in an immaculate room.

An item we did not possess also had a place on the coffee table—the television remote control. This latest bit of technology—along with their color TV, an anniversary gift from their children and grandchildren—set Ed and Millie apart from their neighbors. When a glance at the clock showed it was time for As the World Turns, Millie would reach for the remote. Never one for idle hands, her fingers worked the knitting needles as she watched her program, the afghan-in-progress draping her knees and cascading to the floor.

The male member of the household set his mark upon this room as well. Spread across the fireplace mantel, nose to tail, stood Ed’s herd of brass horses. A set of antlers hung over the archway that separated the living room from the dining room. On the side table beside his armchair Ed kept his particular things, including another brass horse and a box of Kleenex Man Size tissues.

Later in the afternoon Millie plucked the laundry off the clothesline and then started dinner. She might also take on a baking project. Modern woman of the 1960s that she was, Millie embraced convenience. Taking advantage of cake mixes and refrigerated dough, she rarely baked from scratch. But whether it was a wedge of chocolate cake or a half-dozen cinnamon buns, she frequently shared those desserts with us.

Sometimes I’d get advance notice, if Millie happened to see me coming home from school.  As if she couldn’t keep the surprise to herself any longer, she’d call out, “I’ll be ticking your bell later.”

I knew what that meant.  And when 5:00 rolled around and our doorbell “ticked,” there stood Millie holding out a plate of something fresh from the oven, sheathed with plastic wrap stretched to shiny smoothness. When she placed her offering into my happy little hands, warmth penetrated the plate, spread across my palms, and projected comfort that went beyond the appeal to the sweet tooth. This unexpected gift spoke of a caring neighbor who wanted to share not just a treat, but the joy that accompanies life’s little surprises.

On summer evenings, as the aroma of after-dinner coffee seeped through their windows, Ed, with shirtsleeves rolled up, would come out to hose down his lawn. As soon as he shut off the water, coiled up the hose, and sat down on the stoop, the neighborhood kids would converge on him, sprawling at his feet or dangling near his head from the iron railings. His playful sense of humor sent us into gales of laughter, as he had a never-ending supply of jokes just right for the youngest among us. (“When I get up in the morning I wash my teeth and brush my face.”)

Saturday evenings were different. At 7:20 sharp, Ed, dressed in suit and tie, would back the Pontiac out of the driveway and make a solitary trip to Holy Rosary Church, where he served as an usher at the 7:30 Mass.

It troubled us when he was diagnosed with cancer of the larynx, and we endured his absence while he recovered from surgery that replaced his voice box with a mechanical one. After that, our evenings with him dwindled down. But he never failed to smile at us, and he never failed to wave.

© Barbara Cole 2021. All Rights Reserved.