Bewitched

A popular TV series in the late 60's and early 70's was a show called Bewitched. The premise, like many hit shows, was a story line that most individuals might find silly and a bit weird. A good witch named Samantha marries a mortal named Darrin Stephens and together they build a life in suburbia. Hard to believe such a frothy fantasy was a top pick for millions of viewers and continues in syndication today.

When I was young, TV watching was a limited event due to the black and white behemoth that sat on the edge of the sitting room. Its reception was spotty and only a couple of channels were relatively reliable. Selected shows were based on a large family's compromises and prescribed bedtimes. Bewitched was certainly not a first pick due to its shady connection with possible witchcraft but somehow we managed to sneak in enough episodes to know that Samantha had a secret power that seemed oh so appealing. Imagine being able to twitch your nose and instantly have dishes go from dirty to sparkling. One more twitch and your messy room was clean and orderly. To this day, I secretly long for a way to go from grimy to glittery in minutes.

Clearly, I never became the power wielding Samantha Stephens but I'm afraid I did become a different character, Gladys Kravitz. Gladys was the curious, snoopy neighbor who was always on the edge of discovering the reason behind the aura of strangeness in the Stephens household. She would pop up at inopportune times in the Stephens house, seeing and hearing things that caused her face to scrunch up in pondering moments. She was only too willing to share her observations with her long suffering husband and anyone else who would entertain the possibility of miscreants in their midst.

My Gladys moments are a little less dramatic. For years, I have had a full on view of the neighborhood through my large living room window. Any time that I am perched on my couch reading or playing another game of Scrabble with my computer, I am also watching folks walk by my house. I can set my clock to the determined walking pursuits of many dog-walkers, stroller-pushers and I'm-going-to-get-fitters. I've developed stories in my head about the lives of my window actors. The cigarette puffing young lady, hand in hand with her older gentleman friend, is always being pulled along by an itty bitty dog. I've made her the second wife of a love triangle gone bad. The doggedly determined speed walker who goes by in the early evening hours has become someone who is scared witless to gain a pound, perhaps due to past taunts by thoughtless others. The portly gentleman, who walks by in calculated, measured steps, wearing a pith helmet during the heat of the day, has become someone who just received bad news from the doctor and is determined to turn things around. The lady with the swimmingly giant white coat is afraid to buy a size smaller because it might jinx good works that have already been accomplished. And the little dogs who no longer trot by with their owners have probably gone on to doggie heaven, leaving behind saddened loved ones.

All my Gladys Kravitz musings have come to a a screeching halt this month, however. We installed a new living room window with internal pleated shades that can be lowered, not raised.  It makes far more sense to lower the shades so we can let light in without compromising our privacy throughout the day and evening hours. While I love our new, sleek window, I must confess that I miss my sidewalk friends. No more story speculations and daydreaming inspirations and no more Gladys moments. Certainly, I can lower my shades completely and continue the novellas I have created in my head but perhaps it is time to let go, at least for awhile. Or, I can join the pavement pounders and become part of their stories.

On second thought, I'll just lower the shades a bit farther. Enough exercise for one day.