a.k.a. The Azalea Lady of Brookdale Drive
When I was growing up in Westchester, circa 1950’s, the hard and fast rule about eating Halloween candy was—you never, ever eat anything that isn’t wrapped. And even then you have your parents check to make sure it’s okay. Then you check it again to make absolutely sure.
Also in Westchester, at least in my neighborhood, we had a resident witch. We all knew she was a witch because she never came out of her house. She just peeked through the curtains at us when we played kickball in front of her house.
She had a very different looking house from everyone else’s, but what made her really different was her garden. She had a very large azalea garden, which covered her entire property. It was quite a showcase.
Every spring the Sunday paper would run a feature story about it and people would come from miles around to see. They would close off the street to cars and what seemed like thousands of gawkers would traipse down our street to look at the witch’s gardens.
Frank was her gardener. Every day Frank worked in the gardens, weeding, feeding, hoeing, and doing whatever it is that gardeners do in the garden. We would play in the street in front of the witch’s house and Frank would talk to us and tease us. More than once he threatened to “plant me in the garden, head first!” I knew he was just teasing, but I rode my bike extra fast when I passed by Frank.
One time our ball got kicked up into the gardens when we were playing. Frank said he would get it for us, not to go after it ourselves. As he was getting ready to throw it back to us, the witch called to him from the window and said, “Frank, you bring that ball here to me! Then I don’t have to worry about it hitting my azaleas!”
We knew then for sure she was a witch (she even looked like the Wicked Witch of the West!)
Several weeks later, I was peddling extra fast past the witch’s house, she came out onto the porch and called to me! ME! I didn’t know what to do. She said to come up onto the porch, she had something for me.
Well, if I had any kind of brain I would have kept on peddling. What could the witch possibly have for me? But I thought that if my parents ever heard that I had been rude to the witch I’d be in big trouble. (You know how grownups are about manners and all.)
So, I put down my bike and walked up onto the porch. I was careful not to go into the house, (pictures of Hansel and Gretel kept running through my mind!) She came back to the door with a small brown paper bag and said, “Here, this is for you. I’ve been saving it for you. Share it with the others. And I’m sorry about the ball.”
I took the bag, mumbled something polite, and ran down the stairs. Now I had proof! She really was a witch and here was the proof. I was holding a bag of unwrapped candy that she wanted me to share with all the other kids in the neighborhood! SHE WAS TRYING TO POISON US!
I peddled as fast as I could all the way home and ran into the house calling for my mother. Out of breath, and as best as I could, I told her about the witch and what had happened.
Now, the parents all knew that we thought she was a witch, and of course, they all told us she wasn’t. Just and eccentric old widow who was lonely and never had children, so she didn’t know how to act with us. But I knew better. (They don’t tell us all those fairy tales for nothing you know!) I can recognize a witch when I see one! And she was one if ever I saw one! Nothing my mother said could convince me otherwise.
Finally, so exasperated with my insistence that this harmless old woman was a witch, my mother said she’d prove it to me and popped a piece of the unwrapped candy into her mouth!
I stood there breathless, watching my mother, waiting for her to drop to the floor and writhe in all consuming agony foaming at the mouth as the poison worked its way into her system.
……..She kept dusting the furniture. No dropping, no foaming, no writhing. Just dusting.
Okay, so it’s a slow acting poison. That makes more sense. Can’t have all the neighborhood kids dropping dead at once, it would look too suspicious.
So how long exactly does slow acting poison take to act?
I’m still waiting.
