Ramona

We lived in a small, historically insignificant town snuggled up next to Elmira, New York. We lived in the Town of Southport, New York. The last touchstone on the way south to the Keystone State, several miles away.

We lived across from each other on a tree-lined street dead ending at the railroad yard. A quiet neighborhood occupied with, I always assumed, normal, middle-class families. Stay at home moms. Dad’s working somewhere, Monday through Friday, with weekends free to mow the yard or, like my dad, wash and wax their pride and joy under an Elm tree. A neighborhood of families, some newlyweds, a few retirees, young families, many with a child or two.

Our home was a mile from the volunteer fire station that wailed at noon, a traditional mom-and-pop corner store at the end of the block, a church with a steeple where the boy scouts met, and walking distance to Broadway Elementary school.

Her home was a two-story, single-family residence with a large front porch and a deteriorating barn a stone's throw beyond. I lived with my sister in a multi-family house directly across the paved road constructed of concrete slabs. We also had a large, screened in sun porch the width of the house, a porch swing and, like many homes, an aging barn beyond our house. These were older homes that, in my estimation, appeared well maintained. Within our structure, four families lived. Acquaintances.

Mature elm trees created a canopy covering Caton Avenue where we rode our bikes or donned skates while radios or TVs played in the background and parents relaxed on their porches in the early evening, beverage in hand, as the sun sank behind the surrounding hills and light emitting fireflies signaled their arrival.

The family across the street comprised mom and dad, Mr. and Mrs. Holt, and two children whose names I remember. Ramona, the older sibling, my age, and Ronnie, meanwhile I, being the older, had a younger sister, Kathy.

There were several kids populating the neighborhood, primarily guys. The exception was Ramona and my sister. I don’t know if she was older than me or younger. We both attended Broadway Elementary School, but not at the same grade level. Based on the fact she introduced the neighborhood cohort to spin-the-bottle will presume she was older. The game, from what I can recall, was short-lived and the “bottle” was uncooperative. I’m sure we all were terrified the bottle might stop on one of us. The game was called because of a lack of interest, dinner time, or perhaps trepidation. We were like eight or nine?

The expectation during the summer vacation included eating breakfast and going outside, entertaining yourself, wander back for lunch, again going outside, entertaining yourself, and wander back for dinner. The only exception was if mom called you by yelling your name from a porch. Amazing how well that worked because someone, without fail, would hear, and relay the come hither-alarm.

At least once a summer, Ramona decided we needed to start a business. A Kool-Aid stand. Between the two of us, we tracked down a nickel, found a pitcher, several clean glasses or paper cups if lucky, a cup of sugar, a “table” (with a “table” cloth), and a sign announcing our intent. Parents knowing full well our plan and likely the results seemed willing to assist by providing materials, knowing we would be engaged for the afternoon.

We did good. Table up and covered. Kool-Aid made with lukewarm water. Sugar stirred with care. Glasses cleaned or paper cups stacked. Sign placed, Kool-Aid 5-cents. Right there next to the street.

We found chairs to sit on and waited. We watched, chatted… We were the proud owners. When a vehicle happened by, we would smile and wave, hoping to make a sale. Time ticked on.

There was one minor detail we did not factor in: we lived in what was essentially a dead-end street. Now there was actually at the far end, next to the tracks, a rarely used, winding street into and out of the area. In all the years I lived there, never recalled using this side street.

We waited. We talked. I cannot remember those conversations, small talk but to us important conversations. We owned our own business and Ramona was ever optimistic we would have customers. Patience.

And then, like clockwork, the customer. Every year, she arrived. Fancy car, driven by her. Who? I’ll never know. She stopped. Inquired to what we were selling. The flavor? “My favorite,” she always said. Ordered a glass, drank the brew, thanked us, gave us a dollar (a small fortune), and drove away. Success. Fifty cents each represented a bag's worth of penny-candy, each.

 Time to shut down with profit safely stashed in our respective pockets. Cleaned up. Headed home, dinner time.

We often spent time together, reading in my backyard on humid afternoons, picking cherries off the cherry trees, exploring the barns or “forest” down the street, catching honeybees dancing plant to plant, while avoiding the neighborhood bullies.

She was always outside, ready for action, roller skating, bike riding, or capturing fireflies in jars. Joyful. Kind. Enjoying each moment, a joy to be around. We coexisted, never arguing.

One summer, her dad hired me to feed her cat while the family went on vacation. Day one, I never saw the cat. Day two, it peeks around the corner and quickly withdrew. Day three through seven, she greeted me at her bowl, purring, seeking food with a rub.

Ramona’s friendship filled the summer. Wintertime, we vanished. School filled the days, short dreary days, and frosty nights. Everyone retreated inside, waiting for springtime. A return to summer.

Until.

Sitting in the backyard, after lunch on a hot muggy day considering what we should do next, looking pensive, she announced they were moving. To Texas. Why, I will never know. She never expanded on the why. I did not know what to say. I never seem to know what to say when faced with an unfamiliar situation.

We loved our summer. Rode our bikes. Skated. Tried to catch tadpoles in a nearby creek. Opened our business. Until one day, she was gone. Just gone. Summers were going to be different. I did not fully comprehend how different. My dad served in the Navy. We left people behind; we were the ones moving. Here, for the first time, someone was leaving me behind. I feel regret not having the wisdom to stay in touch, but we all know how well that works. Instead, I sadly reminiscent.

Ramona and Ronnie Holt.