She usually emerged when the glass shattered. Her mistake was buying a home that ran adjacent to the outfield of the baseball diamond of Horace Mann Elementary School. It didn’t take much for a good hitter to drive one over the short right field fence and onto Warwick Avenue. The baseball usually bounced it’s way through the window, coming to a rest in the middle of Mrs. Vinnie’s living room. And when she emerged, she was never happy.
We would scatter. The culprit was always someone on our sandlot baseball team. And we knew better. She knew it too. We had trained ourselves to avoid hitting the ball into the right field. But every now and then, the temptation to hit a homerun was just too great. The fact that the right field fence was so short, well, we couldn’t resist.
But as soon as the window shattered she was in the street, pointing, cursing, and doing her best to identify the offender. Typically we’d scatter, and the slowest one of us, usually me, would be left behind to take the blame.
And the penalty – pay for the replacement window and then go into indentured servitude to Mrs. Vinnie until she released me. Personally, I thought that paying for the window should have been enough, but my mother wouldn’t have any of that. So, I worked for Mrs. Vinnie as well, on a number of occasions.
Truth be told, though, it wasn’t anything onerous or even punishing. In fact, my time working for Mrs. Vinnie usually went by quickly. And I soon found out that though she was often angry about an errant baseball flying through her window, she enjoyed the fact that one of the neighborhood kids would join her for a day or two and pay penance for his misdeeds through a variety of chores and errands. Mine typically involved sweeping out the basement, cutting her lawn and running to the drive through to get her beer and snuff (yes, back in those days you could get anything with a proper note from an adult!).
I did my work with a smile. I tried to always be courteous and humble. If I carried myself otherwise, my mother would find out and exact a much more severe punishment. Besides, Mrs. Vinnie was a wonderful woman. And while our time together was driven by work, when she allowed me to take a break, my reward was lemonade and cookies and the best conversation and stories and young child could imagine.
I learned a lot about her. She fascinated me with stories from the early part of the Twentieth Century. Her exploits in the Thirties and Forties kept me captivated for hours. I held on to her every word as she spun her yarns and tales. When my debts had been paid in full, she released me from her service and sent me home.
I didn’t mind the work. Running errands for her didn’t bother me at all. I would always come back for another story or two.
In fact, as I got older I simply volunteered to mow her lawn and help out with odd jobs around her house. For years, I continued to stop by and visit with her and spend time catching up. And then one day I came home to visit my mother and found that Mrs. Vinnie was gone. She had died alone, in her home, under – as the police called it – suspicious circumstances. But her death never warranted a full investigation. It was officially closed.
Despite the marvelous life she lived and the wonderful stories she told, Mrs. Vinnie’s life disappeared into anonymity. The memories of the feigned anger that she managed to muster when the balls crashed through her window have disappeared from the minds of most who knew her. From my many conversations with her, I suspect that it was never about the panes being replaced. It was simply her way to corral us and impart within a desire to succeed and make something of ourselves. She wanted the best for the children in the neighborhood. Getting away with breaking windows wouldn’t lead us to an enlightened path. But a few hard chores and kind words from a brilliant and deterimined old lady would certainly help us aspire to more in life. I pray we didn’t disappoint.
