I remember as a kid back in Waterloo, Iowa the first time I met my new neighbors, the Kaune's. I was unaware of being in the presence of royalty. I was just a kid sitting on the front porch steps watching this nice couple, cheerfully buying red, white, and blue Bomb Pops from the ice cream man for every kid who was out in the street that day. They had recently moved in across the street and it was a grand gesture that was helping them to rapidly make friends. Being a dutiful little boy, I knew that I had been told to never take anything from strangers and so I had retreated to the steps in front of my house to view the spectacle from a safe distance while everyone else gathered around the ice cream truck. Their names were Linda and Gary and they noticed me sitting there watching and brought one of the big, colorful popsicles to me. I was shy and embarrassed. I politely refused and went inside. They could have stopped there, but they knocked on the door and gave the popsicle to my mom so that I could still have it, but not from a stranger. It was just that kind of thoughtfulness that was soon to make them neighborhood royalty and it wasn't long before I could never think of them as strangers again.
I should clarify; Gary was an ex-drill sergeant with a desk job in drafting who drove stock cars on the weekends. His demeanor fell somewhere between Randy Travis and John Wayne and still does. He has much more intelligence than the stereotype good-ol'-boy and the charisma to lead people, but he's not the royalty type. To him, the king will always be Richard Petty and even with that due respect, his favorite will always be the Intimidator, the bad boy, Dale Earnhardt. Gary's realm was the garage where you could "kick tires and talk dirty." That's what he said, but he was always mindful to keep it rated G for all the kids who liked to hang around.
It was Linda who was queen of the neighborhood. When she made treats she didn't just call her boys; she called all of us. She was a small, blond woman who kept her hair fashionably short and neat. Her appearance was dominated by a round freckled-face smile accompanied by a husky, wheezing laugh. She talked very fast and was always full of stories. She would sit at our dining room table for hours "holding court," cigarette in one hand and Diet Pepsi in the other. She loved to yell at my dad in a hilarious mock anger that he was forever trying to inspire with needling remarks, double entendres, and sarcasm. She always took the bait and put on a performance, scolding and gesturing, the pitch and volume of her voice escalating and her speaking accelerating. Sometimes I wondered if she'd stop for air, but she always did pause for Diet Pepsi. I was once sent on a special trip to the store for the apparently addictive beverage so that Linda wouldn't slip into withdrawal. Performing such an errand for someone else may have seemed absurd, but in service to the queen I was a loyal subject, happy to comply.
The biggest "Linda legend" in the old neighborhood is the roof incident. The details are forgotten, but Linda was probably cleaning the glass on the door to the roof of her house and somehow got locked out. She was sitting out on the roof patiently waiting to be rescued, a damsel in distress. As I remember it, Dad discovered her predicament and thought she should perform before being let in. She cheerfully complied with an unforgettable tap dance on the roof. Such a queen endears herself to her subjects with her own humility. And that sense of humor was always one of her best qualities.
To Dad she was always lovingly known as "the Dingbat" and life was more entertaining with her around. Out shopping with Mom she once launched into "The Teapot Song" right there in the store. Mom is excessively shy, but she smiles when she tells the story because she loved Linda so much. Another time we had a Halloween costume party that included a scavenger hunt. One of the items was a bra. There would be 50 bonus points awarded if it was "still warm." That part was only a joke, but I'll never forget Linda as Raggedy Ann pulling her hands into her shirt and working a warm bra out of her sleeve. Priceless.
If you wanted to get Linda talking, it didn't take much, and her family was her favorite subject. I've heard stories about her parents, her siblings, her husband, her sons, and most recently, her granddaughter, her biggest joy right up until the end.
In her 60's Linda was suddenly taken by cancer. She was supposed to have six months, but she was gone in less than six weeks. I thought I'd see her one last time in the summer, but she was gone too soon.
I got the news by cell phone at my niece's wedding. I left the noise of the dance to step out into the quiet of the moonlit night to call Dad. I'd be stopping by the next day and I knew things were not looking good. He told me she was already gone. We talked for a few minutes and I went back inside. The music was throbbing and many of my wife's relatives were standing around talking, but at that moment there weren't many people dancing. My twelve-year-old daughter ran up and grabbed my arm. "Dance with me, Daddy." I thought for a moment of my fallen queen. Linda would dance. I followed my daughter onto the dance floor and the dance goes on.
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