Margie Nickey
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It’s nice to blend the unique perspective one had as a child with the adult mind now. In this story, I remember someone I merely observed but never met, yet her existence spoke to me.
It was a hot, sticky day in Central Illinois in 1954, but since this story predated air conditioning, all July days on the farm were hot and humid. However, when Margie Nickey sauntered past me, she looked cool, undisturbed, without a care. She wore lace gloves, socks, and patent leather shoes with a small heel and a strap across the arch. Having already walked over a mile from her family’s farm to ours, she passed our farm on her way to…where? Oakley, population 250, was another quarter of a mile down the road, but unless she wanted to mail a letter at the post office or buy a Dreamsicle from Mr. Laurel at the General Store, I couldn’t imagine where she was headed.
The idea of going for a walk without a purpose was unknown to me or anyone I knew. Our energy was needed for the many tasks that fed, housed, and clothed us. We walked to the garden to pick something for supper or the hen house to gather the eggs, but we didn’t walk just to walk.
I was hanging out under the cherry tree by the cistern, where the asparagus grew wild, and Laddie, my collie/shepherd mix, was by my side, as he usually was. I was barefoot, chubby, with gaps between my front teeth, braids, and bangs, everything crooked, and a t-shirt exposing my belly button. That wasn’t yet the fashion, but Mama had bought it at the church jumble sale and never had a good eye for what fit, so I prefer to think I was ahead of the trend with my belly button peeking, but I was telling you about Margie Nickey. She was perhaps the first person I ever saw walking without purpose, perhaps just pondering.
I have no idea how old she was. There was an ageless quality about her. Not having the responsibilities of a husband, children, or a job, “What did she do all day?”. She was prettier than the unmarried ladies pictured on my “Old Maid” card game. It’s no wonder I got married for the first time at age 20, not wanting to end the up like the warty-nosed ladies pictured on those cards and not yet understanding the full range of choices.
Margie had thick, dark brown shoulder-length hair curled in wisps around her face. Her skin looked like the Crayola color called flesh as if she had dusted herself in talcum powder. She was so pale, and I’m sure her skin burned even quicker than mine, which is probably why she carried around her own shade, not an umbrella for rain, but a parasol, an umbrella for the sun. She wore long sleeves, even in summer, not a concept widely embraced by us farmers for whom SPF was not yet in our dictionary. Instead, we had hat marks an inch above our brows, various sleeve lengths striping our arms, and v-neck tattoos framing our throats, but Margie, Margie’s dress had pearl buttons to her throat, and the fabric was a serene print, delicate flowers on gauzy material you could almost see through but not quite, with lace here and again there. Crocheted socks peeked above her Mary Janes. These were Sunday clothes, and yet, this was a weekday, and she was the only neighbor I had never seen in church.
I didn’t speak to Margie Nickey. I didn’t know anyone who had, although I heard she was a cousin to Karen Sue and related to the Buckinghams. Margie was a little “off'' to keep to herself like she did, with no job or husband, just walking. Some say she read a lot and was pretty clever, like our very own Emily Dickinson, writing poetry all day, but by the time I understood she and I might have something in common, we were both long gone, she to the West Frantz Cemetery, just up the Oakley blacktop a piece, and me to my life beyond the Illinois farm.
SoCal has been my home for 45 years now, and this past winter, when I was taking long walks with my dog, wearing my Johnny Was boho bold print puffer coat, a turquoise hand-knit cap and matching muffler, variegated fingerless mittens, earbuds with over-the-ear training-wheel-sized hooks, multi-colored socks spilling over the tops of my Uggs, I wondered, as I passed children, many eyeing me with curiosity, I wondered if I looked odd enough that, decades from now, they might remember me in the same vein that I remembered Margie Nickey and whether or not it would make them smile.
Here’s some homework for us: Who do you remember and why? How will you be remembered, and by whom? Thanks for pondering. Thanks for wondering. See you next week.
I’ve little doubt I’m a neighborhood character! I’m seen walking my two dogs twice a day, and I’m generally all in black. Many people know me from the years I was editor of the daily paper this town once had. Others probably draw certain conclusions. They’re always shocked to learn I’m a writer.
I feel you! I'm a fourth-generation farmer who broke with tradition. I created another Substack thread called Sangamon Stories and wanted to channel Spoon River Anthology but I haven't fleshed it out yet (although I have a backlog of stories about going to the "sale barn" and other farm adventures) because I decided multiple stacks were/are confusing. I love connecting with you. My other favorite Illinois stories are https://storiesbyjanus.substack.com/p/dads-funeral-beloved-husband-father?r=28rbmj andhttps://storiesbyjanus.substack.com/p/dear-mother?r=28rbmj