Mrs. Garrison

When I was very young we lived in an apartment building on 6th Street. Mrs. Garrison lived on the third floor of our building for a while, and then she moved to an apartment up the block from us – not too far, still within walking distance. She used to babysit for my brother and me. Sometimes if my brother had plans with friends, I would have her all to myself.

She was really old. I mean, to a 5-year-old, 75 was really, really old. She wore old-lady dresses and old lady shoes. She had a large hump on her back where her spine was curved, and she kept her pure white hair tied up in a bun.

I remember once when I was staying overnight with her, she took her bun down to brush her hair. I had never seen it down. It was so long and white.

“Mrs. Garrison, you look like a witch!” I laughed.

She looked in the mirror. “Yes, I guess I do!” she laughed. I didn’t mean any offense (you know how little kids just blurt out whatever they’re thinking), and none was taken. She put her hair back up in a bun, and she put mine up in a bun too, so I could be like her. We admired ourselves in the mirror. I had never seen my long hair tied up in a bun before. I liked it.

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Mrs. Garrison was afraid of thunder and lightening. She and I had that in common. Whenever it stormed, she would come downstairs from her third-floor apartment and stay with us until it passed. She didn’t like to be up so high. It always made me feel better that I wasn’t the only one afraid of the lightening. And I recall even feeling the slightest bit brave, because I knew that staying with us made Mrs. Garrison feel better. I felt like I was helping her, protecting her. We got through those storms together.

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There was a black velvet painting of Elvis on the wall in the living room.

I was 7 years old, sitting at the kitchen table drawing pictures with Mrs. Garrison when her son stopped by.

“Did you hear?”

“Yes, I heard,” Mrs Garrison said in a low, solemn voice, shaking her head. “I can’t believe it.”

“Hear what?” I asked.

“The King is dead.”

“We have a king?”

“The King of Rock ‘n’ Roll!” said her son. “Don’t you know who The King is?”

I didn’t know, but they sure did. It was a sad day at Mrs. Garrison’s.

(Side note: whose parents or grandparents cut out the newspaper article when Elvis died? I have all the Elvis clippings in the box of papers from my grandparents, along with the moon landing two page pictoral from the New York Daily News, and a bunch of recipes my grandmother was saving.)

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Mrs. Garrison was old, but she was energetic and fun. Much more energetic than my grandmother, who was younger but very overweight and mostly just sat around and watched her “stories” in the afternoons. Mrs. Garrison and I took walks to the lake to feed the ducks, and up to Angie’s Delicatessen to buy new coloring books and nice new crayons. Oh, how I loved a new box of Crayola crayons, with their vivid colors and perfect tips. My favorite was Magenta, although at the time I misread it as Mag-neta.

When my favorite stuffed animal, a little white lamb, got so threadbare from its constant companionship with me, the neck ripped into a wide gaping hole. My grandmother said it couldn’t be fixed, so I carried my wounded lamb around that way for weeks with the stuffing hanging out.

But one night when I stayed with Mrs. Garrison, I asked her if it could be fixed and she said “Of course it can!” She got out her black thread (it was the only color she had) and stitched it up. The black stitches kind of stuck out on my dirty little lamb, but he was no longer injured or losing stuffing as we walked, and I was so happy.

Mrs. Garrison was the best.

Some of the caregivers from childhood (babysitters, teachers...) fade away from our memories over time. But the ones who gave you their full attention, the ones that spent quality time with you, and made you smile, maybe even made you feel loved… those are the ones you never forget.