Long, long ago, in a land far away (Park Ridge, Illinois), Roberta Brown, aka Birdie, and I were friends. She lived in a brown house a few doors away from ours, so I referred to her family as the brown house Browns.
Birdie and I spent our summertime playing in the
sandbox in her back yard. She was about four years old and I was probably about
six. She had plenty of kid size dishes for parties with our dolls, and crayons
and paper for drawing together. My beautiful stuffed Raggedy Ann doll usually
sat there with me. Once Birdie colored a dog purple, so I became bossy and told
her, “Dogs are black or brown and never purple.” She changed it to black.
Many times her mom brought us what Birdie called
cambric tea. Mrs. Brown came out of the house with a teapot containing plain hot
water. As she poured flavorless “tea” and we drank with little glass cups,
Birdie proceeded to tell her mother and me what to do, until finally her mom
said with irritation, “Roberta, don’t be so bossy.” We often sat there with
Birdie giving orders. Pretty soon I was calling my friend Bossy Brown.
Why was this memorable? Maybe I should have forgotten
all about it, but I didn’t. My little friend was showing me something. A kid
can try to get along with her mother by ordering her around and get away with
it. I didn’t talk to my parents that way. Relationships vary more than I
realized in my six year old experience. I did not tell Birdie to stop talking
that way. I don’t know that it would have done any good. She was my friend.
Birdie and I remained friends until my family moved
out of the neighborhood when I was eight years old. I never saw her again.
