Becoming The Crazy Old Lady

Every neighborhood I have ever lived in had at least one person in common, the Crazy Old Lady. In Brooklyn, it was the lady who lived at the end of the block, her property encircled by a tall, imposing cyclone fence. Her shades were always pulled down tight; there were no bicycles or baseballs in her yard, just rows and rows of riotously unkempt plants. The only way we knew that there was a Crazy Old Lady in that house was on the rare occasion we would be brave enough to try and play on “her” section of the sidewalk. We usually avoided this, but sometimes, when the storm sewer would back up, and the street in front of her house would create a huge lake, we would overcome our fears to sail paper boats and throw stones. We wouldn’t be there long before the Crazy Old Lady would emerge, resplendent in housecoat and wiry gray hair, waving a broom and screaming at us. Of course we thought she had to be a witch – what 8 year old who has watched the Wizard of Oz every year wouldn’t think so?

Our Brooklyn neighborhood was blessed with another Crazy Old Lady. This one didn’t really live on our street, but would be often seen in the alley, pushing an old fashioned baby carriage, and rooting through our garbage. Some unspoken code among the adults of the neighborhood kept anyone from confronting her, and in this way, she was scarier than the Witch on the Corner. The term “homeless person” had not yet been coined and we kids were certain that she was looking for our discarded belongings to use to cast evil spells on us. This was fueled by the rumor that she actually arrived at the end of the alley in a chauffeur-driven limousine and lived in a mansion on Park Ave. Of course, no one ever saw the limousine; we were too scared to do anything other than peek through the curtains at her.

Other places I have lived have had their share of Cat Ladies, Bird Ladies and Garbage Ladies. Our childish lack of understanding led to all kinds of wild stories about these women. From our selfish points of view, we just couldn’t understand why any woman would be living alone and not having loads of wonderfully behaved children around, (like us). I suppose, in that sense, we weren’t too different from those who burned women as witches just because they were “different.”

Now that I am older and so much wiser, although I may understand the reasons for the behavior of these women better, I’m even more convinced that every neighborhood still has to have a Crazy Old Lady — and that it is a title that can be something to aspire to.

Not long ago, after moving into my current home, which had been vacant for several years, I spied a group of unsavory characters gathering in front of my house, on “my” sidewalk. They had huge, salivating dogs with them, beer, and scantily-clad, loudmouthed female companions. I realized that this group was not only preparing to party on my lawn, but that they may have even been contemplating a dog fight. When the first beer bottle sailed into my bushes, I became a possessed whirlwind. Grabbing my broom, (yes, my broom) I stormed out of the house, screaming. Even without the housecoat and wiry gray hair, I must have looked every bit the part of the Crazy Old Lady. The young toughs that were assembled with their fierce dogs all looked as if they were seeing a ghost. The scattered like leaves in the wind, mumbling apologies and retrieving beer bottles. They jumped into their cars and left.

When I went back in the house, I found my three teenagers cowering in the living room, convinced that a drive-by shooting was sure to follow. It never did, I’ve never seen that group again.

The power of being The Crazy Old Lady is a tremendous force. And while, at that time, my portrayal of her may have been a bit premature, as I now approach 50, I realize that I will soon be able to wear the title proudly. And if it keeps those messy young people off “my” sidewalk, it will be worth it.
Humor
Daily Life