| Wooden Eyes |
| I could smell mothballs and old perfume wafting past me as I sat with my eyes closed from lack of sleep. It was the too familiar stench of Ms. Simmers. I was sitting on the end of the back pew as she walked past me toward the front of the church. Ms. Simmers sat in the first row of pews pretending to mind her own business but turning around every second or so to see who was and wasn't in church that Sunday morning. Everyone was aware of her shifty eyes. We all knew she was sitting there waiting to see if anyone would do something that she would consider 'unholy.' I can here her shrill voice now shrieking, "Child, what do you think you are doing? This is the Lord's day and you mustn't..." Her phrase could have been completed on any given Sunday with a heap of fill-in-the-blank options including: sing so loud; walk so fast; chew gum; watch the clock; stare at people (although one of her fortes); fidget in your seat...the list goes on. I caught Ms. Simmers dancing once. I was surprised at how agile a woman of her age could be. Then again, I never knew how old she was. She might have been one of those old ladies who is in her fifties but looks as though she's pushing ninety. I just happened to be riding my bike past her house one evening and could see into her living room through the picture window. I'm not sure what music she was listening to, but that woman was dancing around like the computer animated dancing baby. Perhaps many old people dance when they're alone, but I never would've thought Ms. Simmers would be a part of that club. When I was on my way to a school dance my sophomore year of high school I remember seeing her as she ran out of her house while I was posing for pictures in the front lawn. She started wailing and swatting her broom around saying, "Dancing is a work of the devil! Your parents ought to be ashamed!" Ms. Simmers did a lot of things that I never would have thought an older woman, or any woman for that matter, would do. She had a slingshot made out of an old oak tree branch and a piece of elastic. The weapon was a sad-looking contraption, but I learned quickly not to underestimate the power behind it. Ms. Simmers would sit on her porch in her rocking chair and wait for anyone or anything to cross her path. One time I was walking past her house with a wad of Bazooka Joe bubble gum in my mouth. Chewing gum was my first mistake, my second mistake was to pop and crack the gum as I walked. The next thing I knew there was a stinging near my temple. That old woman had used her trusty slingshot to propel a pebble directly at my head. She wasn't partial in choosing her victims; I watched her peg a chipmonk twice for trespassing. Ms. Simmers died about seven years ago when I was a senior in high school. Evidentally she had been dancing around her house again and fell over like a drunken monkey on a tricycle. I guess it was her heart (or lack thereof). I was required to attend the funeral in order to please my parents and to satisfy their desire to please society. Our neighborhood was never about community togetherness or anything, but weddings and funerals did seem to be what brought everyone together and brought everyone to church. At the funeral a rotund lady dressed in a tangerine suit and adorned with gaudy costume jewelry sauntered up to the podium. Introducing herself as Miss Casondra, she began speaking about Ms. Simmers, although I don't believe she had any real relation to her. She began with her birthdate and her education at the old schoolhouse. She made remarks about her garden and her immaculate church attendance. I looked around the church to see nearly every person nodding his or her head in agreement as Miss Casondra continued speaking. She went on saying that Ms. Simmers always had kind words for everyone, loved, animals, and was a friend to the community children. I understand that at a person's funeral people are somewhat required and expected to say nice things, but as I sat there in the back pew I realized that I was the only person who hadn't fallen asleep. |