Wisdom & Whimsy Story Studio

In the mid 70s, my neighborhood on College Park was alive with the sights and sounds of children. Back then, it wasn’t unusual for kids to wander freely, knocking on doors to see if friends could come out and play—or just visiting the neighbors they knew would welcome them. Each house had its own unique character and charm, with its residents leaving little impressions on the local kids who dared to step inside.

Take my next-door neighbor, Mrs. Lofiego. She didn’t speak much English, and although I often worried about getting caught in a conversation I couldn’t navigate, there were occasions when I would stop by. I wish now, I would have made it a regular stop. She was alone and lonely. Had I known. Like most houses, there were rewards for stopping in. Some had to be earned in a sense…there would be the issue of a slightly painful squeeze and awkward silences, but what she did offer—without fail—would be an ancient, powdery Hershey’s Kiss. The chocolate was so old they had developed a faint white film, like they had survived decades in a candy dish. Still, they were offered with such kindness, and moldy or not, it was chocolate so I never refused them.

Across the street were Arthur and Peggy, owners of the most De-luxe organ I had ever seen. It had three levels of keys, glowing lights, and all kinds of buttons I desperately wanted to push. Peggy was sweet enough, but Arthur, with his stinky cigars and grouchy demeanor, and their cranky Pekingese, Twinkle (who most certainly did not live up to his name), made each visit an exercise in bravery. Even so, I kept coming back, hoping against hope that Peggy might one day let me play that organ. (Spoiler: she never did.)

I developed a special closeness to our neighbors Mildred and Mr. Smith. From age 4, and even through middle school and junior High, my Moore’s cigarette smoking, diamond encrusted glasses-wearing Mildred was someone very important in my life. More on her later…But concerning my writing and love for books, there was no one quite like Mrs. Bennett. She lived a couple of doors down in a pristine, white house that exuded a sense of importance. Mrs. Bennett wasn’t the kind of neighbor who handed out candy or invited you to get cozy in her living room. Her house was formal and slightly intimidating, and when you visited, you stayed in the foyer—no exceptions.

Mrs. Bennett, I later learned, was a retired English teacher, (I believe) and boy, did she carry herself like one. She had a special air of refinement and a quiet insistence on good manners, that demanded respect even from a wandering child. (Especially from a wandering child) She didn’t tolerate first names; she was always “Mrs. Bennett.” And if you were lucky enough to borrow one of her books, It was somehow understood that you better come back with it in pristine condition and be prepared to discuss it.

I didn’t go there for candy or comfort, but on long summer days when boredom crept in, her house—and her books—offered something different. After a polite chat (always polite), she’d disappear into the back of the house and reemerge with another book for me. I didn’t always love the books she gave me, but I read them, partly out of curiosity and partly out of pride. I think she knew I would. I wouldn’t come back until I had read it. What a clever insurance policy on her part and probably why she was heavy on the chapter books and light on the picture books.

Looking back, Mrs. Bennett may have been the first person to foster my love of stories and to look at books as something special. She didn’t dote on me with hugs or treats, but she gave me something better: a task, a challenge…a spark of curiosity, and a growing appreciation for the power of books. I’ve thought of her so many times over the years, her smile warm but composed, her generosity quiet, genuine and deeply impactful.

It feels only right to dedicate my first blog post to her, may her memory be for a blessing.