The Blazer Witch

Childhood is the shortest and longest period of life. It’s the shortest for we spend most of our lives as adults. It’s the longest because these years remain with us for our entire lives. We carry the memories of childhood into our future.

One of the magical moments of my childhood was my neighborhood. It was a brand new community of townhomes with half-acre lots that reared up to woods. Parents with young children occupied most of the homes. The month before I began kindergarten, I moved in and discovered five children who would begin school with me. Our mothers walked us to the bus stop and formed friendships. They met up for lunch and organized an annual neighborhood cookout.

Summer, to me as a kid, felt charged with magic. We played kickball in the streets and the melody of the ice cream truck had us running to our homes for money. Our moms took turns bringing lemonade outside for us to sip as we rested on one another’s front stoops. After sunset, we dashed around our yards chasing fireflies. We were a tribe of children.

We leaped into piles of multicolored leaves before heading inside for homework in the autumn. Old Man Winter's arrival had our mothers bundling us up for sledding on the gigantic hill behind our neighborhood.

It was idyllic until my next-door neighbors moved away. They were the same age as my brother and me. We spent the most time with them because of our moms being the closest. Our childhood tribe was unhappy to give up two members but confident that another family would take residence in their now-vacant home.

It was morning when the moving truck parked in front of the house next door. I was enjoying a bowl of cereal when the moving truck pulled up. I opened the curtains, believing potential friends were moving in. A black blazer pulled up with rap blaring and three teenage boys clambered out. Disappointment sank in as I realized that there would be no new kids joining our childhood tribe for pizza nights.

Mrs. W, the new owner of the house, was a recent divorcee who had moved from what our parents called “City”, saying that word in the way adults do, concealing the second meaning of it from our innocent ears. She was grumpy and didn’t enjoy greeting neighbors. Rap music blared from their house at all hours and she drove as if the devil himself were after her. The teen boys walked around with no shirts on, bouncing basketballs and teasing us younger kids. Hordes of teen boys frequently visited the new neighbor’s house. Our parents using that tone to say “visitors from the city”

Mrs. W was not a welcome delight to our quiet neighborhood. The dads complained about the loud music and the moms complained about her speeding. Our children play on these streets, they said. A complaint about the music was lodged. Mrs. W was not pleased with us either.

When our annual neighborhood picnic came, the adults moved in hushed circles to talk about the latest antics of the new neighbor. It appalled the moms that she had sprayed one of their own with a hose. With a sick daughter, the mom had knocked on the door asking if Mrs. W would please turn down the music. Things escalated and resulted in Mrs. W grabbing the hose to the shock of the other moms.

There was a little boy in the neighborhood that annoyed everyone. None of us kids turned him away when he came to join us, but no one ever knocked on his door to invite him outside, either. One day, he was egging on the teenage boys when one of them began chasing him with a hockey stick. Jumping on his bike to escape the older kids, he pedaled like the devil was after him. The little boy’s legs pumped eagerly on the bike. He thought he was getting for sure, but the teen boy caught up to him and knocked him off the bike. He broke his collarbone.

This incident changed the course of our neighborhood. The little boy’s mom sued Mrs. W. Her response was to increase the volume of her music and the speed of her driving. The drama was between the adults, but it had seeped down to us kids. The trickles we had picked up from our parents turned to fear towards Mrs. W.

“We could call her the blazer witch,” I said one sultry afternoon as we sat on Amanda’s stoop with popsicles. Sweaty hair sticking to my forehead from an afternoon of riding our bikes around in the scorching sun.

Kelly laughed the loudest. “That’s perfect”

Popsicle juice running down my chin, I suggested a new game to play. “When she comes, we can say run from the Blazer witch”

“Run to where?” Jenny asked, finishing her popsicle.

I shrugged, casting my eyes around the neighborhood. “We have trees and bushes to hide behind. The green box, too”

“My mom said to not play on it!” Charlotte had said. Amanda nodded in agreement.

“Nah, it’s ok to hide behind, just not sit on top of,” Jenny said, dispensing sage advice I agreed with.

A new game for us was born that summer day. That afternoon, as soon as I saw Mrs. W’s black blazer turning on our street, my heart started beating fast.

“Run! It’s the blazer witch!” We all started scattering with our child legs pumping fast as we ran from the road. The boys joined us too, ducking behind bushes and hiding behind cars. We would giggle peeking out of spots watching Mrs. W check her mail before she headed inside to brew potions in her cauldron.

This game became routine. We played it alongside tag and hide and seek. Our parents would tell us it wasn’t “nice” but they didn’t forbid us from playing, so the game continued.

It should come as no surprise that Mrs. W didn’t find our game as amusing as we did. I still remember the day the blazer witch approached us. It was bitterly cold, and the sky was the color of lead. My mom had suggested it was too cold to play outside, but I saw my friends outside in their coats and hats and I ran to join them.

As normal, we saw Mrs. W coming, and we giggled while yelling “Run from the blazer witch!” as we headed to duck behind the green electrical box.

This time Mrs. W didn’t park her car and head to the community mailbox with clicking heels on concrete. Oh no, this time, Mrs. W marched down the sidewalk and stood near us. “I see 4 little girls who are about to be in a lot of trouble!” Her voice was sharp and her tone halted the suppressed giggles we were trying to contain with hands pressed to mouths.

As she walked away, I realized I was the only one laughing, so I turned to look at my friends. Amanda looked worried and Charlotte was biting her nails. Jenny wide-eyed asked me if I thought she was going to talk to our parents. Charlotte stopped biting her nails and Amanda looked my way. “No way,” I tried to reassure them. “She isn’t a fan of our parents!”

“She seemed super mad, though,” Amanda said, looking around as though her mom would materialize out of thin air to scold her.

Jenny nodded solemnly. “I don’t want to be grounded, not with a new baby in the house!”

“Maybe she doesn’t like us calling her a witch,” Charlotte said, and my face started burning. I had never taken the time to think that the nickname could cause her grief in any shape or form.

Mrs. W didn’t tell our parents, but we didn’t keep playing blazer witch. We still used the name in hushed tones, but the game was over. Like most things in childhood, it was there one day and gone the next. Our family moved a few months later, and I started a private school, leaving behind my childhood tribe.

We had all attempted to stay in touch, but our friendships faded. Locked away in the memories of our golden childhood days. One day, a few years ago, I had a Facebook message, and it was Amanda, from my childhood tribe. She sent me a message saying she looked me up after remembering the Blazer Witch. My face cracked into a wide smile as I typed a reply to a member of my childhood tribe.