My house is blue, what's that to you?

I wanted to paint it purple, with dark wine balustrades and teal around the windows and upper gable; but my husband reneged on his promise. "Go for it Babe. Do it up your way," he'd told me.

 My mistake was in showing him the paint swatches. "Lord, Babe, What's come over you. We'll be beseiged with the 'this is a refined neighborhood, not some Caribbean or Italian fishing village' kind of messages. It's bad enough that we had to replant a lawn where you'd strewn a wildflower prairie . . . with a paint palette like this the neighbors will call the planning commission. Heck, anyone driving down the street will be tempted to call."

Walter suggested taking it to a more modest blue, and leaving the trim white. Blue might raise a few hackles, but wouldn't incur a fine or require repainting. As it was, I receive several anonymous notes which I believe all came from the same person though she tried to disguise her handwriting -- Mary with her red hair piled in that pompador who would sashay past our home on her way to Mass every morning – all sweetness and guile.

I remember the time I brought her niece Amy over to say hello to, Mary's husband, her uncle Barney, who'd been rendered silent by a stroke. Amy had been fearful of paying that visit because Mary wasn't speaking to her mother, but she missed her uncle. I told her that of course she must visit her uncle and that her aunt should not frighten her. She was a good Catholic afterall and certainly wouldn't condemn a child because of a sibling dispute. I was wrong.

 "Get off my porch, you little whore," Mary had shouted when she saw Amy climb the porch steps. I watched in horror as her face changed to a contorted gargoyle's mask that turned redder than her hair.

 Her words and hate quite took my breath away. The girl was only 10. I was horrified to see such ugliness thrown at a child.

 "What are you saying, Mary?" I asked, trying to stay calm.

 "You stay out of this, bitch," Mary hissed. "You're as bad as she is, you with the tight pants and halter tops and that hippie husband of yours."

 This was a woman who boasted about being "such a good Catholic." Who went to daily mass and to confession every Saturday. I couldn't let this go.  

"You know what, Mary? I'd suggest you run right over to church and confess that you've just slandered a child and insulted your neighbor."

 I took Amy by the hand and led her off the porch.

 "Hypocrite," I said, turning around to face Mary and feeling a wild surge of irrational joy as she gasped.

 Yes. Those notes had to come from Mary all right.

"Your house is as disgraceful as you are."
"This used to be a respectable neighborhood until you moved in."
"You don't belong here."

Next time my house needs a new coat of paint I'm taking it to purple with wine colored balustrades and teal trim. I can't wait to see the notes I'll get then.

© Beryl Singleton Bissell 2008

The Minneapolis Star Tribune named Beryl as a "Best of 2006 Minnesota Authors." Her book The Scent of God  was a "Notable" Book Sense selection for April 2006. She is a columnist for the Cook County News Herald and has been published in anthologies and periodicals nationwide. See Road Writer for her travel blog.

This is a 10 minute writing exercise suggested by Kathryn Esplin-Oleski for the Wednesday Night Writing Essentials. The above photo is hers.