The Whites

 On our street growing up, there were three families. The Rhodes, The Whites, and us. Mrs. White was the Martha Stewart of Cheatham Hill Rd. Her house was a perfect mix of Williamsburg colonial and Better Homes and Gardens. If we had dinner there, we knew it would be on nice plates, and we knew it would be good. Their house was always very quiet. And it smelled lovely, probably because we didn’t play there much. Mr. White was a doctor like my dad. I know he went to Yale, which according to my mom at the time, was impressive and meant he was very smart. But he didn't act like it. He was funny and approachable and mumbled a little like my dad. So it put me at ease. 

If Anna Kate was like our sister, then Rosalind White was the Godfather of the group. We were her minions. I take that back. I was the minion, but Rosalind was the clear leader of our little gang. She was the oldest, two years older than my sister and a year older than Anna Kate, and she had a quiet older brother, Rodger, who was there the day I was brought home and had been fascinated with my tiny baby toes. Danny was the enforcer, he was the one I was afraid of. Storys floated of him sitting on people and farting. Every kid's nightmare. Rodger was more civilized. 

I remember peeking into Rodger's room to glimpse a shrunken head he hung on the door of his closet. I imagined they had taken a trip to some island, isolated from the rest of the world, and he had been given the shrunken head as a gift from the tribal leader. More likely, he bought it a Spencer’s.  

I remember seeing Rosalind through Anna Kate, and Heather's legs. She was older and wiser and had what were said to be “street smarts,” according to Anna Kate and Heather. Not sure what street smarts she developed in Marietta in 1980, but whatever “it” was, Rosalind had it. She stood up to Heather and had a nice room. That was all I needed. 

The White moved off Cheatham Hill to a house around the corner, and we visited often. The new house had a laundry chute and as a kid, if a house has a laundry chute, you've made it. I would stand in that laundry room while Heather, Anna Kate, and Rosalind were doing whatever I was forbidden to be a part of, and I would throw whatever I could find down that chute. It was a slide. A slide for anything and everything. Even us occasionally. 

The Whites join the Rhodes weekly with my dad for happy hour at my mom's new home. They sit and talk with her about the days on Cheatham Hill. Or their kids. Or they just sit for a bit and keep my mom happy because that's what families do.