Mr. Robinson

In my neighborhood the “boogie man” had nothing on old Mr. Robinson. Well at least that was the opinion held by my friends and I (ranging in age from 9 to 12 at the time.) Mr. Robinson stayed in his quiet blue house, with the drapes drawn and the windows shut tight, only venturing out to cut the lawn or to run errands in his big black tank of a car, a 1958 Cadillac that didn’t make as much noise as you might have expected something that big to make.

Nobody knew how long Mr. Robinson had lived in the neighborhood…he had been there as long as anybody, child or adult, could remember…and indeed nobody was exactly sure how old Mr. Robinson was (his skin, the color of rich pecans, was clear and relatively smooth but his hair, always neatly trimmed, was white as downy cotton.)

His wife, a chubby golden brown woman with perpetually smiling eyes, had always seemed to have a special place in her heart for all of the boisterous (and sometimes downright annoying) kids on the block. She would sit on her porch in her rocking chair knitting contentedly as we played baseball in the street or ran screaming like merry banshees during games of hide and seek that wove in and about all of the houses on the street; she would gently chastise us if tempers flared and fights seemed to be in the offing and that would be all that was needed to defuse the situation; she would bake wonderful treats to give away on Halloween and give us little candy hearts on Valentine’s Day. Some of us kids made her Valentines on Valentine’s Day and gave her little Christmas cards on the last day of school before Christmas vacation (we always brought Christmas cards to share with classmates and some of us saved an extra one to bring to Mrs. Robinson) and she always seemed to be delighted by them.

Mrs. Robinson (and yes she knew and liked the song, though she would have replaced Joe DiMaggio with Jackie Robinson in it if she had her druthers) made her house a welcoming place for us kids. Mr. Robinson, even then, was a sullen, mysterious figure who came and went paying little attention to the kids. We often wondered how it was that two such different people got together…and stayed together.

We never knew exactly how Mrs. Robinson died. One day an ambulance came and took her away while Mr. Robinson, dark blue and green suspenders (not sure why I remember that so vividly) holding up his brown trousers, watched from his porch. My mother and Lloyd West’s mother went over and spoke with him briefly; he nodded and he offered them a grateful little smile (none of us had seen Mr. Robinson smile before and we never would again) before disappearing back into his house.

From that day forward the kids in the neighborhood learned that the Robinson house was no longer a welcoming place. If by chance a ballgame or a round of hide-and-seek accidentally found its way into his yard, Mr. Robinson would explode through his door bellowing “you little hoodlums stay offa my grass!” and we would scatter. Our parents told us to respect Mr. Robinson’s wishes and, for the most part, we did.

On the last day of school before Christmas vacation I saved a Christmas card even though Mrs. Robinson had been gone for months by then. I signed it and put it in my jacket pocket. Walking home from school, after my friends had gone into their houses to change out of their school clothes, I paused in front of Mr. Robinson’s house. I thought about Mrs. Robinson and I smiled. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the little card and, my heart in my throat, I walked up the walkway to the front door. I was just about to put the card on the porch next to the door when the door swung open and Mr. Robinson, his face as stern as ever, loomed over me.

“What’ve you got there?” he said gruffly. I couldn’t find any words so I just held out the card. With an annoyed sigh he took the little envelope from my hand and opened it. He read the card and then looked at me, his face softening just a bit. “Thank you,” he said. “My Abby kept alla these things you little hoodlums gave her. Couldn’t understand why.”

“You’re welcome,” I said in a small voice, backing away from the door and down the porch stairs.

“Hey boy,” he called out to me as I got to the sidewalk. I turned and looked up at him. “Tell your little hoodlum friends to keep offa my grass,” he said but he winked and almost, but not quite, smiled as he said it.

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Robinson,” I said as I crossed the street and headed towards my house.

Mr. Robinson still yelled at us when we happened onto his lawn but I never took it quite as seriously again.