I remember Rosie.

I remember Rosie; I wonder how many others do.

When I was a kid in my hometown, there lived a tiny old lady named Rosie K., who lived six blocks away on the other side of our small rural village with her son, Johnny. Rosie and Johnny were the very definition of poor, even by the standards of our little town, which back then wasn’t exactly prosperous. Their home was one-room, with fuel-oil heat, hand-pumped water, and, I imagine, little or no insulation. I don’t know if Rosie had many friends, but it was widely assumed she had no family other than Johnny. How they landed there, I haven’t a clue. My mother took care of the billing and book-keeping for the town back then, and the townsfolk would often drop off their payments to her at our house. Each month Rosie would slowly walk the six blocks down to our end of town to pay the water bill, and, always, no matter the season, with a thin scarf tied around her head. 

I remember Rosie smiling as my mom welcomed her in and offered her a cup of coffee to drink and a chair in our living room to sit and chat for awhile. Rosie had an accent I was unfamiliar with, a mostly toothless smile, and as she really had no way to wash well, carried with her the strong scent of her house- musty, dank and stale, which lingered long after she left. That still didn’t keep my mom from inviting her in. In her typical good nature, mom would simply wait until Rosie left in her own good time before taking the cushion of the chair Rosie sat in outside to the front porch to air out. She never complained about Rosie or thought of her visit as an inconvenience- it was simply how one treated a guest- with kindness-  no matter who that guest happened to be. 

Mom recognized that Rosie had no one else but Johnny, and never turned her away. On Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas each year, one of us five kids chose a handmade school art project to deliver to Rosie and Johnny, along with two heaping plates of food. If we protested giving away something we made, mom gently explained, “They don’t have anything nice to decorate their home with, and we have lots of things. Let’s bring one over to them.”

Perhaps it was Mom’s way to thin out the never-ending stream of holiday hodgepodge we kids brought home, but by doing that we also learned that even though we didn’t have much, we had much more than Rosie and it was good to share our blessings and bounty.  

Each time I go back to that formerly tiny town, it kind of amazes me to see the new and huge subdivisions that were all farm fields when I was a kid. The homes that were considered mansions back then are now dwarfed by the enormous houses on seemingly every corner. We fit five kids in a three bedroom, one bath home. Cozy? Cramped? Yep, it was both but we all survived, happy and healthy. Now it seems families are smaller, but homes are so much larger. I believe Rosie’s entire home could have fit in one side of a garage. 

Rosie and Johnny are both long gone now, and where their tiny house once stood is a vacant, grassy lot. Clearly, my old hometown is bigger now, with many more people and the air of a thriving community. 

Perhaps no one sees them, perhaps they do, but I imagine a “Rosie” exists somewhere there, as people like her are in every town, everywhere.  

I wonder if anyone will remember them.