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New York Street wasn’t paved in front of our house in those days, but there was a nice sidewalk across the road
that ran past Old Lady Rogers’ place. If you wanted to roller skate, it was your only option. But Old Lady Rogers
was meaner than skunk stink and didn’t want anyone on her sidewalk. I didn’t bother telling Margaret about that
the first time we strapped on our Flyers and lit off down that concrete strip. We hadn’t any more gotten onto the
old lady’s property than she was out her front door, shaking a broom, and screaming at us. Margaret might have
stood there and argued with her—she could be stubborn—but she had seen me flee up the block and quickly followed.
“Hey! What kind of town is this?” she demanded to know.
“Not much of one, my brother says.”
In those days, Margaret sometimes elected to stay at our house for lunch. John B. was never thrilled about it, so
Mama often made us up a picnic to take outside. Mama always favored John B., and little wonder, everything he did
for her and us girls.
It was picnicking on an old rug out on the front lawn where I first acquainted Margaret with the neighborhood. I
told her, “Yonder is Max Nix’s place,” pointing to the next intersection, “that little house, kitty corner.”
She interrupted. “Max Nix seems like a funny name.” And she went back to munching on a carrot.
“That’s cause his real name is Gustav Heitzelpfarrer—or something. But if you can’t pronounce it, he always says ‘Max Nix,’ which means
something in German. So that’s what us kids call him.” Then I repeated it imitating Max’s accent, Mox Nikts.
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(c) 2010 Douglas Armstrong
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