Martha

We go on lots of walks, though most of them are the same exact route. Up Hazel, across on Elm, down Broadway, and back home on Jefferson. On the corner of Hazel and Elm, there is a little white ranch house with a two-car garage. The lawn is well kept. The bushes are trimmed neatly. The window boxes have little flowers in them. Almost every time we stroll by on the sidewalk, we see Martha.

Martha doesn't have a front porch. Her front door is preceeded by one small cement step. A few years ago she used to get out her little lawn chair and sit there on that small cement landing, right by her front door. She would read books and do some knitting. And as I walked by she was careful to not look up, not make eye contact, not say hello. I could have been a squirrel dashing across her yard for all she cared. Frequently I was spooked - she sat so quietly and still it was almost like she was a lawn ornament. Seconds later I would realize she was sitting there, 10 feet away, blinking, staring at whatever she held.

Lately, Martha has given up her seat on the front step. Instead, when we walk by her garage door is wide open. The car is parked far off to the right. On the left she has placed a kitchen dining set. A small square table with chrome legs and 4 matching chairs. Underneath, a small rug. Not far from the table, a small 13" television set, turned up to full volume.

And there she sits - back to the world, in her outdoor dining room, garage door wide open, volume up. She doesn't wave hello. She doesn't even look up. She simply sits there every evening and watches her television in her garage.

At first, I'll be honest, we snickered quietly under our breaths. Once we were a few houses away we would make a comment like "Now that's an idea!" or "We could move our tv to the garage, and our dining set, and a rug. But where would we park the cars?" Its always the same. We walk by, look at Martha as she sits slumped in her chair watching her tiny television, glance at each other and stiffle a laugh. We aren't cruel people. If she waved or said hello or even looked up I think we would think differently of her. It wouldn't be as strange. At least, we could reason that she sits outside to be part of the world. To watch the people who pass by. To say hello. To wave. To watch the squirrels. Anything. But no. Martha doesn't do anything outside that she could not just as easily do inside. The only reasonable conclusion is that she likes the fresh air...of her garage anyway.

I don't actually know that her name is Martha. I made that up. I'm just guessing. Just like I'm guessing that she is widowed...has been for many years. The evenings she spent with her husband have long since faded in her memory. She recalls from time to time the quiet dinners, the way he shuffled across the floor, the way he opened the door, the sound of his breathing at night. More familiar now are the nights she lay in bed listening to the whir of the ceiling fan and the creaking of the house as it settles. She never expected to have all 4 chairs around her garage dining room table filled. She's gotten used to cooking for one, setting the table for one, washing one plate, drying one glass. It isn't that there is much to do and she doesn't feel like doing it. Its that there's so little to do and she has done it all twice already. All that's left is to sit in the garage, watch television, feel the breeze, swat at a few bugs, and wait.

I am intrigued. Who was she 50 years ago? 30 years ago? 5 years ago? Does she have family? If so, why don't they sit in her garage dining room? Why doesn't she look at me when I walk by?

But more intriguing still - who will I be when I am Martha?