And don't call her Shirley Shirley

Her name was Dorothy Shirley, but to me she will always be Shirley Shirley. It can be argued that she had two first names and, for a kid no older than ten, it's easy to see how one could get confused. I remember my mom exasperatedly trying to explain to me how her name was Dorothy, not "Shirley Shirley," as I was prone to (innocently) calling her. We went round and round about this, like some unintentional Abbott & Costello routine. "Who the hell is named Shirley Shirley?!" mom exclaimed at one point. I still didn't understand, but decided to back down, not wanting the back & forth to continue. Dorothy Shirley lived across the street and slightly to the south from us, at the corner of the street. We knew everyone on our little block of Draper St. when I was growing up, save one. That's just the way it was.

Directly across from us were the Tuchels, Bob and Wanda. Bob died in 2019, aged 98. Wanda is still living. Next door, to the north, were the Dawsons, Pat and Don. They had a dog named Boo. One day I toddled over uninvited into their yard, and Boo got the better of me, So it goes. Up at one corner were the Oyes -- the parents, and their kids Angie and Keith. They were both older than I was. Angie babysat me a time or two, and I had a small crush on Keith back in first grade. Next door to us, to the north, were two elderly sisters who lived together, Gibby and Marcella. To the south of us lived an older couple, Cecil and Bea. It was a lovely block to live on, and a safe place to be a kid.

Across the street and a smidge to the south was a brick ranch, and I can't tell you who lived there. I never heard my parents mention them, nor do I remember ever seeing them. Next door to them, at the corner, lived the Shirleys. The husband's name was, I think, Howard, though don't quote me on that. He died a long time ago, and the memory may not be serving me well. He and his wife would have been in their 60s in the early-mid 1980s, the time I best remember life there on Draper St. The Shirley's driveway let out onto Draper, and it was there that, one cold and blustery winter day, I witnessed my father literally fall out of his recliner, all at the expense of poor Mr. Shirley. My maternal grandmother (affectionately known as 'Gummy') was visiting us from Homewood. She  would later say how she'd never seen that side of my dad, had never seen him laugh so much.

It was, as I mentioned earlier, wintertime, and there was a fresh blanket of snow and ice on the ground. Our big living room window opened onto Draper St., and we had a good view of the Shirley's driveway. I forget whether Mr. Shirley was coming or going, but he'd become stuck in his driveway. As though he was caught in some sort of loop, he'd be in his truck, trying to rock it back & forth to no avail, then get out and attempt to push it (also to no avail). Rinse, repeat. My dad, instead of doing the neighborly thing and going out to help, sat in the recliner in our living room and laughed at the predicament. Finally, after several minutes of failed attempts at getting his truck unstuck, Mr. Shirley kicked the vehicle, obviously cursing while doing so. My dad lost it and fell to the floor, laughing like a madman.

When warmer months came around, and the block would come out of hibernation and interact more frequently, we never spoke of the driveway incident. I knew it was verboten, as no doubt it wouldn't play well with the Shirleys. I remember being in their house at one point. They were hosting a party, and we'd been invited. I had to pee and, always up for being nosy, asked if I could use their restroom. It was a home that looked lived-in, with lots of knick knacks and bric-a-brac adorning the interior. It wasn't until some twenty years later, when Ashley & I lived on Edwin St., that I would know such a neighborhood vibe again.

Within the past five years, I saw Mrs. Shirley at one of our local 4th of July parades. She was sitting in a lawn chair, surrounded by family, watching the participants go by. I made one of those split-second decisions that, in your head, feels like an eternity, and went over to say hello. Was this a good idea? Would she remember me? I walked up and introduced myself. She was quite old at this point, and we hadn't interacted in 30 years. She smiled back, though I didn't really sense any recognition on her part. Her family seemed happy to say hello. Either they remembered me, or were doing a super good job of being polite.

Mrs. Shirley died a few days ago, on December 30th. She was 104 years old. I'm glad I said hello on that July 4th, perhaps more for my benefit than for hers. A lot of the neighbors who lived on Draper St. are gone now, both in their residency status on the street, and from life itself. The older you get, the more you appreciate links to the past, and Dorothy Shirley represented that in a way. To me, she was a through line to a bygone era, a time that where a kid lived on a cozy block and felt safe, knowing (almost) all his neighbors. To her family and friends, she was obviously much more.

* I'm adding the full obituary for Mrs. Shirley, published in today's paper.