A Guy comes calling

It was very awkward when boyfriends came to call at the house on the hill. Daddy laid down the law to us girls, "It's either boys or school. You can't have both."

A couple of the girls chose boys. Grace, however, chose school and earned the rank of salutatorian of her graduating class. A year or so after graduation, she came to work in the superintendent's office in the same school. There she became acquainted with the new teachers, a couple of which were young men.

A number of our nieces and nephews, Bobbie and I had these young men as teachers. I remember in particular our music teacher, Mr. Mousier's visit to the house on the hill. Mr. Moushier was French and spoke with an accent. I was a bit taken aback by him and was amazed that he would visit our humble home.

Mr. Moushier's visit was on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I'm sure Grace spent a lot of time and energy preparing for his visit, cleaning, rearranging furniture, preparing drinks, and perhaps even arranging for Rrean and Lloyd to be there. On this particular Sunday afternoon, Rrean, our sister, and her husband, Lloyd, and their two children, Jennie and Phillip indeed were there.

Jennie was eight or ten, a few years younger than Bobbie and Phil was just old enough to make life miserable for girls playing house. I had advanced to the ripe old age of fourteen or fifteen, much too old to play with dolls.

Upstairs, was the ideal place for playing house. There was plenty of room to set up two or more pretend homes. There were plenty of old clothes to dress up in and dolls aplenty for babies. This afternoon, the play house was at the end of the long room far from the stair way, pretty much directly over the downstairs living room. Bobbie, Jennie and Phil were playing up there and were relatively quiet.

Mr. Moushier arrived right on time. Of course it was nothing but proper for him to sit and chat a while before he and Grace went for a drive. A few minutes into the visit, Phil decided that he had had enough of playing house and decided to have some real fun. Phil was a little on the chubby side, with very short brown hair and the most beautiful mischievous brown eyes you would ever see. Both girls were nearing the end of their doll playing days, beside being a little large for their age.

One of the girls had chosen a discarded hand bag in which to store her baby doll clothes. The bag was a long, black, patent leather purse. Without warning, Phil grabbed the purse, stuck it under his arm, and began running toward the stairs. The purse was so long it stuck out the front and back of his chubby frame. With a scream from the girls and much giggling from Phil, he began to run the length of the house to the stair way. The girls grabbed their naked dolls and ran after him.

Now the house on the hill was by no means insulated, sound proof, or too sturdy for that matter. The house itself jumped and danced with every booming step of the fierce race upstairs. At best there were only two layers of flooring separating the stampede upstairs and the quiet conversation below. In fact, when the running began the conversation stopped.

Not willing to be seen or heard while Mr. Moushier was there, I sat quietly in the kitchen window out of sight. As soon as the running began, I knew where it would end. The doll players knew nothing of the distinguished guest downstairs. I had a strange premonition that Phil would head straight for the living room. Immediately I jumped up to intercept the on coming wild gang.

Still not willing to reveal my presence, I mouthed, "Stop, stop!" Phil came on. I waved my arms and mouthed, "No, no!" But, Phil came on with the girls in hot pursuit.

Phil made a sharp right bringing them all into the living room forming a nice formation in front of the sofa. There they were, Phil with the long black patent leather purse, Bobbie, not in her Sunday best with a naked doll hanging on her arm and Jennie clutching her doll with surprise in those beautiful brown eyes and a smile and giggle that would melt your heart. Then, silence, really dead silence.

Finally, Mr. Moushier spoke in his beautiful accent, "Are we playing dolls?"

Without a word the startled band turned and retraced their steps all the way back to the play house upstairs at relatively the same speed and intensity. I returned to my seat in the kitchen window. The quiet conversation continued in the living room. Only after Grace and Mr. Moushier left for their drive did we burst into laughter. I can't remember Mr. Moushier returning for a second visit.

You could be yourself in the house on the hill. No one judged your speech, your actions, your ideas, your dreams or aspirations. Strangers and family alike were treated with dignity. With so much going on, it was hard to keep the house clean or attractive, but the things that mattered were clean. Food, clothes and beds topped the list. The things that mattered were respected, your integrity, your dreams, your word. The things that mattered most were given free rein, love, laughter, and solace.