Mrs. Peterson

One of my best friends growing up was Tom Dobbins.  He had a neighbor across the street named Mrs. Peterson.  Every time I saw her, she wore a house coat and slippers with her hair in curlers.  Why she never managed to get dressed I don’t know.  

One Saturday she came across the street to ask us - we were twelve at the time - if we would burn the grass in her yard.  “The grass needs a good burning,” she said, “and I’ll pay you for it.”  

We spent a good chunk of that afternoon on hands and knees crawling around on Mrs. Peterson’s brown lawn, trying to burn the grass.  We went through about two thousand matches.  It was a little windy.  And we had no experience burning zoyza grass.  We’d light one little patch, and it would burn a circle about six inches across, then die.

In the middle of the afternoon, Mrs. Peterson emerged from the house to offer us lemonade.  “Come inside when you’re done,” she promised, “I have something to give you.”

We tried not to race ahead of ourselves thinking about our payday.  What is the going rate for burning someone’s yard?  $5?  $10?  Surely it won’t be $15 apiece!!

We finished and knocked on the door.  Mrs. Peterson invited us in and had us sit down at the kitchen table.  Then she presented us with a form of payment I hadn’t quite imagined: two enormous wedges of pineapple cream pie.

I had never tried pineapple cream pie.  And I wasn’t about to start that day.  My friend Tom wound up graduating from the Naval Academy.  So as you might imagine, his sense of honor and duty is fairly high.  As she retreated to the laundry room, he finished his piece off with a few big bites.  He just swallowed it without chewing.  To get it over with. 

“Finish your pie so we can get out of here,” he whispered.  “I’m not eating this pie,” I protested.  He looked at me, looked at the pie, looked toward the laundry room.  And without another word he switched plates with me and ate my piece even faster than he’d eaten his.  

Mrs. Peterson returned just as he shoveled in the last forkful, and looked at the two empty plates.  She was surprised we could eat so much pie.  “Well I’ll be,” she said.  “You two must have really liked that pie.”  “Can I get you another piece?” she asked.  “That was delicious,” I offered.  “But really, I couldn’t eat another bite.”

I learned at Mrs. Peterson’s table what it’s like to have a best friend.  After all these years, and all that’s happened between us in thirty years of friendship, I remember us sitting together at that table.  Tom eating pie.  He remembers this story too.  Though I think he tells it a little differently.  I should have guessed then how many good things happen around a table.