You
want a quiet, peaceful life in retirement. But you may not get what you want.
Sometimes
what you’ve done earlier in life can come back to haunt you, as is the case in . .
.
Her Name Was Ella
Living
on Liberty Lane could be a nightmare. Neighbors knew each other, but didn’t
seem to get along. People screaming and screeching car brakes were a way of
life from which no one could escape. In this neighborhood of irritable souls,
it was hard to be accepted.
Rhonda
stood staring out her living room window in her senior community, dreaming of a
future that was peaceful and quiet. She murmured, “I deserve better than this.
I’m a good person. This isn’t what I wanted.”
A
prisoner in a world without bars. Fearful of what the future might hold. Afraid
of taking a chance. Could her sentence be reduced?
Would
she live in fear the rest of her life? But, in reality, she didn’t have a life.
How can I stand up to the unfriendliness on my street, she thought.
“I’ve got to do it,” she moaned.
Then
there was a knock on the door—soft and gentile. Rhonda moved with caution into
the hallway. She reached for the doorknob, but before touching it, she pulled
her hand away. The fear she felt was overwhelming.
Another
knock—softer and gentler than the first—caused her to believe she could do
this. She held the knob in her hand and turned it. She took two steps back, as
she pulled the door open.
Sitting
on the stoop was a package, decorated in bright yellow paper and red and blue
ribbons. Do I dare touch it, she thought.
In
the ten years she’d lived on Liberty Lane, she’d never received a gift like
this. But was it a gift? Or could it be something that would destroy her life
in an unspeakable way? And did she dare try to find out?
Quivering,
she moved toward the package and began to reach down to pick it up. And then .
. .
“Don’t
touch it!” a mysterious voice from out of nowhere shouted.
Rhonda
jumped back and looked around, but saw nobody. Believing this was all in her
head, she decided to give it another try. But, as she did . . .
“No,
you can’t do it! You’ll be sorry if you do,” the voice echoed in her head.
“What
did I do to deserve this? I’m sixty-five years old and I keep to myself. I try
not to hurt other people,” she muttered.
“But
maybe you have,” the voice whispered.
“How
can that be? Before I retired to this godforsaken street, I was a respected
teacher, poet, and author. And then I came here. I’m almost invisible on this
block.”
“Yes,
almost,” the voice stated emphatically.
“What
do you mean by that?”
No
answer. Her world became silent. The voice disappeared. Rhonda stood in dismay.
And then shook in agony, as she heard the screeching of car brakes and the
screaming of a woman, “You bastard. Didn’t you see the stop sign? You almost
killed me.”
Rhonda
slammed the door, leaving the gift package sitting in the sun, but with a
shadow cast upon it. She feared what might come next and didn’t know if she
could handle it.
Confused
and afraid, she ambled into the living room and collapsed on the couch. She
picked up her legs, now feeling like dead weights, and placed them on the
ottoman. Still shaking, she tried to get comfortable. But leaving the package
on the front porch bothered her. I should get it, she thought.
As
she began to get up from the couch, the phone rang. She reached over and picked
it up off the end table. “Hello,” she said.
A
familiar voice, the one playing games with her head, stated, “Rhonda, you must
face your demons.”
“Face
my what?” Rhonda asked, not knowing where the conversation was headed.
“The
past that is upsetting the present,” the voice replied.
“I
don’t have a clue what you mean.”
“Did
you do something wrong that might have upset these eighty-year-old neighbors of
yours?”
“Huh,
why would you ask such a question?”
“Because
it is one you must answer,” the voice stated emphatically.
“Who
are you anyway, and why do you care?” Rhonda queried.
“I am
your voice of reason and you need to listen to me.”
“I’ve
had it with you. I’m going to get the package and find out what this is all
about.”
Rhonda
pushed the off button on the phone, rolled off the couch, and headed to the
front door. Opening it, she peered at the nicely wrapped box and wondered how
finding out what was inside might change her life.
It
seemed like hours passed, as she tried to muster up the courage to approach the
unknown. Another car screeched down the street and swerved toward her. She
glared at it. The man behind the wheel stuck his head out the window and
shouted, “What are you looking at, lady? Just mind your own business.”
She
wanted to yell back at him and say, “This is my house and I can look at
whatever I want to,” but she kept her cool and her mouth shut. He drove on
without further altercation.
With
her eyes now focused on the package, she bent down and picked it up. She felt
something move ever so slightly, but it didn’t alarm her.
“Are
you ready for this?” the voice asked.
“You’re
back?”
“No.
I never left. Sit down before you do this,”
For
some reason, she listened. Carrying the box, she closed the door and went into
the kitchen. She placed it on the table and sat down. Carefully, she untied the
ribbons and removed the wrapping paper. Then, almost in slow motion, she took
the top off the box.
“Remember,
I’m here for you,” the voice stated in a supportive manner.
Why
this calmed her down, she didn’t understand. Removing the packaging, what
appeared was a book—a book she’d written when she was forty-five years old. The
title jumped out at her, “Old Folks—People I’d Never Want to Be,” written by
Ella James, her pseudonym.
Postscript: Old Folks—People
I’d Never Want to Be by Ella James
The
old folks in the audience clap in praise.
The amazing show leaves them in a daze.
When
their enjoyment at last abates,
They rush to the bathroom as if on roller skates.
They
love the actors up on the stage floor,
But appreciate getting to the toilet in time even more.
Although
I never want to die, old is not what I want to be.
How
these old folks navigate through life is a mystery to me.
Copyright © 2025 Alan Lowe. All
rights reserved.
