I was in second grade. My family lived in the Riverside section of Wichita in the 1950s. The neighborhood was mostly small homes built just before and just after WWII. I lived three blocks from Woodland Elementary School and walked to and from every day – rain or shine. Often I walked with my best friend, Lois. There were two turns between my house and the school; at the end of my block I turned right and walked one block, then turned left onto Salina, one more block to school.  On the corner of Salina was a tiny house of undetermined age but definitely built years before the rest of the neighborhood. It looked very old, weathered beyond having color, and slightly tilted as if it was melting into its small corner plot of land. The yard was mostly dirt and sparse grass. I always crossed the street on the opposite side from the little house because a witch lived there. A witch, or a gypsy, or some kind of monster who stole little children. So went the common lore at my school. It was a place to be avoided. I very rarely saw the ancient lady who lived in the house. She would sometimes be on her front porch when I passed by, but I never intentionally looked in her direction in case she put a spell on me.

Life in the 1950s in a middle American suburb was idyllic for a child. My biggest worry was if I could complete double-dutch on the jump rope at recess. Our school had no cafeteria or lunchroom, so we children walked home for lunch, then returned for afternoon class. That meant I walked past the witch house three times each school day. Most of the time I didn’t pay any attention to it – just knew I didn’t want to walk directly in front of it on the same side of the street.

One spring afternoon, Lois had to leave school early so I was walking along by myself toward home. I noticed the lady on the corner was out near the sidewalk of her house. As I approached on the opposite side of the street, I kept my head turned away so she couldn’t see my face and cast an enchantment. I heard a voice.

“Little girl,” came a croaking call.

I ignored the voice and kept my face averted.

Again I heard, “Little girl. Little girl, can you help me, please?”

The chicken skin on my arms prickled. I had been raised to be polite, especially to older people. Torn between politeness and panic, I looked up expecting to be zapped by lightning from her eyes. At closer range, she didn’t look that scary. She was barely taller than me and very lean. She had kinky black hair pulled into a wiry top knot on her head. She wore a print dress covered mostly with an apron, not much different than my grandmother wore. I paused.

“Please,” she said. “Could you come over here and do me a favor?”

Now my hackles were really up. Images of Hansel and Gretel passed through my mind. Didn’t the witch ask for their help just before she cast them into a cage to fatten them for a meal? Would my mother and father guess that I’d been taken by the witch? They had never said anything about her. Maybe they didn’t know she lived in the neighborhood. Would Lois be able to guess what happened to me and tell someone?

“Sweetie, please. Do you know how to read?”

Ahh. That went directly to my pride. Yes, I was the best reader in Mrs. Jones’ class. With halting steps, I crossed the street toward the old woman. She had a paper in her hand.

“My grandson wrote me a letter,” she said. “I don’t know how to read. Would you read it to me?” She motioned me to follow her to the cracked slab porch. Her back was bowed and she tottered a bit as she walked. She sat down on a scratched, partially rusted green metal chair and handed me the letter. It was only a few lines, and it was in a sort of cursive writing, so I had trouble deciphering it. I don’t remember the contents, but I do know that it was signed, With My Love. The old woman had tears in her eyes.

“He’s my only living relative,” she said. “He used to be a boy, young like you. Now he’s in the Army. I don’t never get to see him.”

My heart softened. I didn’t have any words to say to her, so I hugged her. She clung to me, her thin brown arms wrapped around my arms, and looked into my face. I looked back into her dark brown eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. “I made cookies today. Would you like one?”

What seven-year-old would pass up a cookie? She got up, opened her front door, and beckoned me to follow. The house was very dark. It had only one room with a kitchen area at the back and it looked like there was a bedroom next to the front room. Only a little light came through thin old curtains. I could smell the fresh baking. I took a step in and was shocked. The floor was dirt. She had a rag rug in front of an old rocking chair and one under a small round dining table that had one chair. The dirt floor was packed. It didn’t look like outside dirt, it looked clean and swept. I took the offered cookie then told her I needed to get home. She thanked me again and said I could come visit anytime.

I never went back to her house, but I did always wave if she was outside. And I walked on her side of the street when I wasn’t with Lois. I told Lois the story and I think she thought I made it up. I didn’t tell anyone else…until now