A Million Little Pieces Of My Mind

It is an imposing residence, but interestingly it does not stand out in its neighborhood as one would think it should; perhaps because it is set so far back from the street. We pass through the wicker gate and meander, along with the walk, towards the sounds of children's laughter—Many children's laughter—coming from our destination: a three-story, half-Wellington shoe.

The doorbell is activated by an antique bell-cord; we pull and hear ringing from somewhere deep inside the place, but there is no answer. The children's laughter is hushed. We pull the cord again, and finally a window, cunningly set in just below the ankle, is thrown open above us. Who are you? yells the elderly head extended therefrom.

Paul Cilwa and readership, we answer. There is a pause after the head disappears, then the front door opens. Come in, come in, the old woman says. I'm sorry if I was rude. I thought you were those people from Zero Population Growth again. Do you know they've been here three times already this week? They've been trying to get me sterilized! Can you believe it?

I do find that a bit hard to believe… we venture, not sure how to react. She appears to be, at the very least, two hundred fifteen years old, perhaps a decade or two older.

I have had, at last count, she says, one hundred ninety-seven children, thirty of whom were twins. And, she adds, grimacing, I think I'm pregnant!

You certainly must have a lot of stories you could tell…

I have a lot of stories, but I couldn't tell them. Not in mixed company, anyway.

Well, actually, we were thinking of stories about raising children.

What makes you think I know anything about raising children?

We are confused. Well, you said you had—

She ignores us. I'm good at having children. Not so good at raising them. Math-wise, and, barring twins or multiple births, I should never have more than 19 or twenty kids living here. But I'm certain some of them just never leave. Why else do you think I'd be living in a shoe?

Well…

Actually, I've always kind of wanted to live in a sneaker. But I'd probably hate it. You know those sneaker people, always playing tennis and having barbecues. They don't like old folks in their neighborhoods. Especially fertile ones.

That's too bad.

All the wives are afraid I'll run off with their husbands. And me happily married all this time!

You're married? Really? I mean, I've never heard of your husband, we say, momentarily forgetting to use the editorial we.

Hmph. I'm not surprised. He's never home. Says he can't stand children, if you can believe that. She shakes her head. But he doesn't have any reticence for making them.

By this time we have been seated in the upstairs living room, a charming place with a view looking out over the tongue and carelessly draped laces. A little girl of about ten enters with some tea and donuts on a tray. The name Ruth is embroidered on her blouse in pretty blue letters. She hands us a cup and a donut; Thank you, Ruth, we say.

My name's not Ruth. I'm Amelia. Ruth moved to Omaha.

But your blouse—

Is a hand-me-down, of course, interrupts the old woman. You don't think everyone of these kids has new clothes, do you?

We guess not. Tell us, how do you manage to name all these children?

She sips her tea. Well, for the first few years, I used the 'Name-Your-Baby' books. All of them. Then I started with the atlas. She points to a couple of teenagers lounging in the hall. That's Denver and Qatar over there. When I ran out of proper names, I started using generic names of places, like River and Delta. The last couple have been named from the Government Agencies listings on the Internet. That, she says, gesturing to an infant in a playpen in the corner, is Division of Forestry.

Indeed, we respond.

She rises. I'm sorry to have to say good-bye to you so soon, but today is the day for the children to have their shots. We always go at unexpected times; otherwise the county health department sees us coming and puts up their 'CLOSED' sign.

We rise, also. It's been terrific talking to you, we say, but tell us: do you have any last advice for the parents who may be reading this?

She appears to think for a moment. Yes, she says. Whatever you do, don't move into a shoe. Wait until you can get a good deal on a sneaker.

Her efficiency is amazing; within fifteen minutes she has loaded some 25 or 30 children into an eight-cylinder roller skate and backed out of the driveway; however she pauses as she passes by us.

You have some more advice? we ask hopefully.

Yes, she replies, you'd better stay clear of the property for the next half-hour or so, unless you want to be sterilized. Zero Population Control usually flies overhead at this hour.

We take her advice.