The Robbers

Things That Got Lost the Mists of my Childhood

(Enjoy this essay as read by the writer instead of AI!)

Your Fearless Writer in Her Wayward Youth

Hello, Friend,

Most of the details of my childhood are fuzzy around the edges. The details of The Robbers are particularly fuzzy, because they were ghosts. Yes, I saw dead people and it terrified me.

After I was born, my parents and I moved several times before settling down, including a brief stint at my father’s family home. My memories of that house are vague, but I do distinctly recall the smell of bacon frying. I remember the smell of wet bathing suits and chlorine and the musty walk from the pool, through the basement, and up the stairs to the small bathroom by the kitchen where we could dry off and change. I also recall being fascinated by the huge cement frogs that spit continuous streams of water into the pool in the backyard. Many years later when I returned to this house, I was sad to discover the frogs no longer spat.

Shame, that.

When I was three or four my parents saved up money and bought an old farmhouse on the edge of the Main Line in Malvern. The house was set back from the very busy road. There was a wood fence separating our yard from our next-door neighbors on one side and a dirt road on the other. We had a big yard, with lots of fruit trees and a vegetable garden. The fence was not a deterrent to the rag tag Bohemian family who lived next door. They had boundary issues. One snowy winter day while we were out they set up an ice-skating rink in the center of our backyard. They appeared to be having a wonderful time when we came home and found them there. Another time the mother from this family took it upon herself to paint huge green Pop Art flowers in another neighbors’ swimming pool. The pool owners were not amused.

Some might have called this family free spirited, but I think most folks in our neighborhood called them less savory names.

The neighborhood kids regularly played Marco Polo in the green flower embellished pool in the summer months. Not knowing what Marco Polo was I was frustrated when they kept calling out, “MARGOT!” and I replied, “WHAT?” and they replied, “POLO!” This could go on for quite some time as my frustration mounted. Why were they torturing me so? If they liked my name that much, why didn’t they invite me over to swim?

The dirt road next to our house led back to a golf course, more houses, and some woods. The proximity to the woods meant that we had occasional contact with wildlife. One warm summer evening I stuck my big toe in the mouth of a rabid bat who was dying on our front steps. My bare toe was enveloped by a soft, wet, warm sensation. Once I realized it was a bat, I produced a scream at a stratospheric pitch. I didn’t move my foot out of the bat’s mouth, which would have been the logical thing to do. Instead, I stood there, frozen, screaming like a Banshee until my parents came to the rescue. You’ll be delighted to hear that this bat did not bite me and I did not have to endure rabies treatments. If you can avoid it, try not to stick your toe in the mouth of a dying rabid bat. Why tempt fate?

Our little farmhouse was right next to a private golf course. My father sawed off some full-size wood handled golf clubs to make me a set of kid sized clubs. He told everyone that I had a great swing, and I like to believe that was true. My father and I spent a lot of time golfing, which I very much enjoyed. I was a sporty kid, though I’m not very sporty these days.

One afternoon while my father and I were making our way up the dirt road from the golf course we heard screeching tires, a dull thud, and a blood curdling scream. My father dropped his golf bag, told me to go home, and sprinted down the road. Our neighbor Stevie Brown was hit by a car crossing the busy street in front of our houses. His tennis shoes remained in the street, and he was thrown backwards onto his lawn. My father was the first adult on the scene. Stevie’s sister saw the whole thing happen. I remember thinking my dad was pretty heroic the way he ran up that road. He came back to our house, grabbed a blanket, and wrapped Stevie up to keep him warm until the ambulance came. Stevie was in the hospital for the better part of the next year. I never saw him again. I hope he got better. I liked Stevie Brown.

I’ve not golfed in years, unless you count Goofy Golf or Putt-Putt. I will confess a deep-seated love of Goofy Golf. There’s a golfer named Margot Potter and for a while there her fans kept following me on social media. I imagine that they were sorely disappointed to discover that I was a forty something craft expert and not a teenaged golf expert. I dated a golfer in high school. He never encouraged me to play. He had a terrible temper, which is not a useful trait for a golfer. I amused myself by driving the golf cart up hillsides and watching cartoon smoke puffs come out of his ears. His hopes of a golf career were sidelined by his anger issues. My hopes of a golf career were lost in the mists of my childhood.

I have no idea what The Robbers wanted, since they never said or did anything. I remember feeling cold and heavy and scared when I woke up and saw them standing next to my bed. I remember feeling sad for them, because they didn’t seem very happy that I was sleeping in their house.

The first time I saw them, my aunt and her new husband were visiting us. They brought me a stuffed dog toy. I woke up with my stuffed dog snuggled close, opened my eyes and let them adjust to the darkness, and there they were. Three people stood staring at me from the edge of my bed, a man, a woman, and a child. They were dressed in old fashioned clothing and gaping at me with expressionless faces. I was half awake and half asleep. In that state of semi-consciousness, I leaped out of my bed with my new stuffed dog clutched in my tiny hands. I ran down the hall to my aunt and uncle’s room screaming. Why I bothered them instead of my parents, I don’t know. I was frantic, trying to explain about The Robbers, slobbering all over my stuffed dog. They were kind enough to let me stay with them that night. One would think I would have deduced that The Robbers weren’t real after running through them. I did not.

Years later, it finally occurred to me. The Robbers weren’t robbers, they were ghosts.

I took to hiding under the covers with my stuffed dog to protect me in hopes that The Robbers would get bored and leave me alone. I spent years sleeping with covers over my head, which did nothing to improve the state of my already horrible hair. I can’t imagine doing that now, because I’d feel claustrophobic. I don’t even like socks on my feet when I’m sleeping these days. Back then, covers over my head and socks on my feet felt safe. I’m not quite sure why I thought the covers would protect me from The Robbers, but I was a kid. It was kid logic.

I’m also not sure why I called them The Robbers. What were they going to rob? Why was I afraid? They never did anything to me. In my child mind, having three figures stand next to my bed and stare at me lead to all manner of illogical conclusions. I think my adult mind would make similar conclusions, if I’m being honest.

My parents were beautiful people and, on the surface, our bucolic suburban country life seemed beautiful. Under the surface, it was not as pretty. I didn’t know about most of the not pretty parts, because I was a kid. After having three children and struggling to make it work, my mother could no longer hold us together. Things fell apart. They divorced when I was in second grade, the year that Stevie Brown got hit by a car. We moved away from the farmhouse. We rarely saw my father in the years that followed.

I stopped sleeping with the covers over my head. I forgot about The Robbers. I forgot about my kid sized golf clubs. I forgot what it was like to have a dad and a mom and a backyard full of fruit trees. I forgot the details of our little farmhouse. I grew up and moved on.

I never saw The Robbers again, they were lost in the mists of my childhood along with my golf career and the illusion of our happy little family.

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