Roo's Treehouse: Gone, With the Wind.

I called Miss Margaret "Margaret Mitchell," because, despite five years of many over-the-fence-friendly conversations, and walking encounters on the dirt road that ran past our houses, I could never remember my next door neighbors' last name. Walt, her husband, I referred to as "Walt Whitman".

Margaret is that amazingly sweet, epitome of southern charm and class all of us women of the South grow up longing or hoping to be. Miss Margaret grew roses and flowers and vegetables. Miss Margaret could cook and bake. Miss Margaret could pull off wearing hats. Miss Margaret always looked like the quintessential, never rumpled, tailored class act, even when she was just piddling around the house. Miss Margaret had a heart of gold. She reminded me of Rosalyn Carter.

Unfortunately, last weekend, Miss Margaret went outside to check on the mail and never came back. Walt went to see what happened -- often she'd throw in some weeding as she passed by the garden or played fetch with their dog Otis. Sadly, that was not the case this time. Miss Margaret suffered a massive stroke and was pretty much gone before the ambulance arrived.

Her viewing was sad and lovely; she looked so young in her (why is it so hard to type) casket. As we milled about with the others, we learned of the other parts of Miss Margaret's life that we weren't familiar with: two grown daughters, married, with seven children and two great grandchildren. And, it seems Miss Margaret's family in Kentucky would welcome her home to the family plot. I happened upon three tittering women, making a fuss over all of the floral arrangements. There was a lunch bunch - for decades! - every Thursday, discussing the trial and tribulations of marriage, children and adulthood. A foursome of ladies, now a trio.

Her husband was not at the viewing. Dear, sweet, strong, military background and law enforcement retiree Walt just could not bear the thought, or the sight, or the pain, of not having her by his side. Half a century plus is a long time to live with love, the same love, day in and day out, through good times and bad, and babies and pets and across-the-state-line moves, and all of the other things that come along with life. He is exactly what you want a Walt to be: inventive, good with his hands, full of stories. He won't eat at McDonald's, but he'll take their French fry grease to use in the truck he converted to run on old oil.

My heart aches for Walt Whitman. I've been there, too, and I know he is up against a wall of loneliness that only he will be able to scale. He will always miss her; yet conversely, always feel her presence. "Grieving is like digging ditches all day; so be kind to yourself," my mom counseled me when Cowboy passed. "It is grueling work. Never let anyone tell you different." She'd lost her husband, my stepfather, just two years before.

It is Friday afternoon as I write this. People have begun preparations for their weekend -- tailgate parties, open air festivals, decorating for Halloween. I too, will be busy; but at some point, I plan to sit quietly in my lawn chair, the Mitchell-Whitman house in my view, and drink tea from a delicate cup, and tell her goodbye, and then add her name to this year's offrenda. You will be missed, beautiful Margaret.

(Following Margaret and Walt, clearly taking a morning drive, out of the 'hood one beautiful fall morning. They were holding hands at first, but when he gassed it, she held on to the car instead. )