Louanna's LettersA

Louanna's Letters

The tulips were delivered to Miss Izzy's doorstep once a week without fail, all wrapped in cellophane and tied with a bow. I looked for them every Tuesday morning when I walked Puppy to the park.

No knew her name. She seemed like an Isadora, so in my head I addressed her as Izzy for short. I added Miss out of deference for the liberal dusting of silver on her crown.

Miss Izzy lived by herself in the house at the corner of Clover Court, with a cranky cat who fumed and hurled itself at the front bay window whenever Puppy and I passed by. An orgy of weeds wandered all over the walkway and her grass hadn't been cut for as long as I could remember. She wore her hair in a knot at the nape of her neck, or in a wispy braid hanging over her shoulder. In the summer she hid under the brim of a floppy old hat, squatting on a wooden stool and plucking away at the sea of dandelions buttering her lawn.

It irked me to keep walking past with never a word of acknowledgement, so one day I attempted a cheerful 'good morning'. Miss Izzy made no response and I concluded that she was fated to end her days alone.

The dog days of summer yielded to fall temperatures. Autumn weather flung mantles of flame all over the maples guarding the sidewalks of Clover Court. Puppy pranced in piles of dry leaves, always pausing in front of Miss Izzy's bay window to perform his three-legged ballerina act against her fire hydrant and drive the cat into a foaming frenzy. Miss Izzy still sat on her stool and tugged. I wondered how she would pass her mornings when a blanket of white frosted the lawn.

I became reluctant to venture out as the cold crept in. Puppy played in the backyard, and I reconciled myself to picking up and disposing of bushels of lapdog waste when spring returned. Then came an unexpected mild day when I was inclined to walk again with a panting pet in tow. We approached the battlefront window just as Miss Izzy emerged from her garage, lugging a laden recycling bin.

I covered the distance between us at a brisk trot with an offer of assistance. "Miss Iz ... er ... ma'am. Let me help you."

She straightened up with a sigh and nodded, murmuring, "Yes. Thank you."

Stooping to pick up the plastic bin overflowing with newspapers, magazines and bundles of letters secured together with rubber bands, I caught a glimpse of faded foreign stamps.

"I'll hold the dog," Miss Izzy offered. I handed the leash over, and bent to examine the contents of the box.

"Miss ... ma'am, these stamps might be of some value. Are you sure you want to throw them out?"

"Do you want them?"

"Oh, I do!" I couldn't believe my luck. "What about the letters? They should be shredded, you know."

She shrugged. "Keep 'em, toss 'em out. As you wish. Don't care."

Miss Izzy held on to Puppy while I dragged the blue box to the curb. She gave me a plastic bag for the letters.