Misunderstanding mother for ‘nother, I was always excited to meet someone named Marge. “Wow, ‘Nother Marge, isn’t it great that there is another Marge?”, I would exclaim. Maybe the Marges tried to correct me, but likely they enjoyed my confusion and did not think an explanation necessary. I was very upset when I saw the dwarf stealing her bed from the house on Lenola Road. Why did none of the adults notice? Could they not see what was happening? Later on, I realized that this memory was of the movers doing their job. I don’t know if one of them was a dwarf or not. ‘Nother Marge and Granddaddy moved from next door or across the wall to Main Street. After they moved, I learned the phone number by heart, 234-3xxx, and would call to let her know that I was going to sleep over. She would always ask if my parents knew of my plans. I did not really understand why they needed to be consulted. I did not imagine that she would ever turn down the opportunity to have me over. There were plenty of sleep overs and visits to Main Street. It was on Main Street where I learned to play cards with endless games of crazy eights and memory. Games that we somehow always won. On Main Street there were always cookies in the cookie tin. I was particularly enchanted by the squashed fly variety, aka the Currant Biscuit. The house had a long driveway that sloped downhill. From the steps she would instruct us to fly. We would put out our arms and start to run. She thought that, if we were not constrained by the cynical adult mind, we would take off. Even if we never noticed our feet leaving the ground, it was fun to run for a cause. She taught us that kissing your own elbow will cause you to change genders. And, when you reach your hand over your head and can touch the top of the opposite ear, you are ready for Kindergarten. On a walk through the woods, she would name all the trees, not understanding why anyone would be impressed by this knowledge. It is good that she believed in the impossible, especially in these last years. She pondered how her bedroom moved sometimes even though the pictures on the walls did not change. She was frustrated by the visits from her mother and sister because they would not talk to her. We nodded knowingly since these things happen sometimes. Looking out at the trees on Pocono Lake this summer, she puzzled over when they had grown. Trees grow in 93 years, we decided. As her youngest great-grandchildren ran around the beloved cabin, playing, she admired them, “Aren’t they wonderful?” Yes, they are. There will never be another ‘Nother Marge. Thank you for all the magic.
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