Starlight, Starbright. . .

Mrs. Murphy, tiny and apparently defenseless, was an old woman; and every child in Redbud Grove was terrified of her. Anyone who walked by her house, child or adult, passed precisely in the center of the pavement. There was an unwritten law, decreed and enforced by Mrs. Murphy, recognized and respected by the town’s residents.

Her law was simple: KEEP OFF THE GRASS! She had posted no signs; but to the children of the town, each blade of grass in Mrs. Murphy’s lawn flashed a green neon warning: TOUCH ME AND DIE.

She lived less than a block from our house. During school months, I walked past her property twice a day. Much of the time I crossed the brick-paved street before I neared her place; but I became braver as I grew older. By the time I was eleven, I had even spoken to her several times, but always from the center of the sidewalk.

In the spring and autumn, Mrs. Murphy worked in her yard every afternoon. When I and other neighborhood children came home from school, she held some lawn tool, a rake, a hoe, a shovel or broom, as she watched us go by her house. She was patrolling her grounds, and the tools were her weapons, potentially dangerous or even lethal.

"I’m gonna ride my bike across Old Lady Murphy’s yard today."

As one body, Sheila, Cathy, and I turned to look at Travis Kent, who rode his bicycle a few feet behind us. We didn’t like Travis. He was the smallest boy in fifth grade, and he was the most obnoxious kid in the whole school. His orange-red hair had the texture of straw, and a three-spike cowlick stood up at the crown. Lashes the color of his hair framed light blue eyes. His skin, mottled with all sizes of freckles, was unmercifully sunburned from spring to fall.

"No, you won’t," Cathy replied. "You’re too chicken."

"You dare me?"

"Sure, I dare you."

"You just watch!"

We crossed the street two houses north of Mrs. Murphy’s corner. Travis remained on the sidewalk, riding slowly until he passed the spot where Mrs. Murphy stood, about ten feet from the pavement, leaning on a garden rake and glaring balefully at him. Suddenly Travis pedaled forward quickly and angled his bicycle across the corner of the lawn. He rode in sweeping curves and finally exited onto the intersecting street, where he stopped and looked back.

At first, Mrs. Murphy stood as though in shock. Then she moved more quickly than any of us could have imagined. The high-pitched screams and squawks that emanated from her toothless mouth could have been nothing but profanity. We recognized a few words – "bassard" and "dad-durned snot-nose blat" among them. She brandished the rake, as she chased Travis. He allowed her to reach the edge of her lawn before he pedaled away. We heard his mocking giggle as he disappeared.

It was the beginning of a feud that lasted for several weeks. After school closed in June, Travis made forays across Mrs. Murphy’s grass at various times and on different days. At first I admired his courage, although I didn’t like him; but as summer neared mid-July, I began to feel sorry for Mrs. Murphy. I dreaded the sound of her fury that reached our house each time Travis made an appearance. I wished that he would just go away and leave her alone.

I had discovered that bullies are not necessarily larger than the object of their abuse, for Travis Kent was bullying Mrs. Murphy.

There is a fine line between confidence and cockiness, and one hot summer afternoon, Travis crossed it. We heard his voice above Mrs. Murphy’s shouts.

"What in the world--?" My mother followed Buddy, Bethy and me out the door, and we walked the half block to the corner of Pine and Highway One-thirty-three. Mrs. Murphy’s house was across the highway on the opposite corner. We arrived in time to see Mrs. Murphy swing her broom at Travis, who backed away from his downed bicycle.

"Get away, you dad-burned bad boy! Get away!" Mrs. Murphy shrieked.

"Just give me back my bike!" Travis shouted.

Swish! She swung the broom again, and then Mrs. Murphy sat down on the front wheel of the bicycle. Each time Travis came close, she brandished the broom; and he stepped away.

"Get off my bike, you crazy old woman!" Travis’ voice became as shrill as Mrs. Murphy’s.

It wasn’t long before other neighbors gathered, and a wide circle formed around the combatants.

"We’d better call Pat," someone said. Within a few minutes the town’s solitary policeman arrived in the town’s solitary patrol car.

The officer opened the car door and just sat in the seat with one arm draped over the steering wheel. For several moments he observed the confrontation on Mrs. Murphy’s beautiful green lawn. The man sighed audibly, then shook his head and slowly emerged from the vehicle.

Pat Murphy was a short, stocky man with curly dark hair and a pug nose. His round face held warm brown eyes framed with wrinkles, caused by years of sun and the quick smiles that came so readily to his countenance.

He ambled slowly along the path that opened for him through the crowd, until he stood looking down at the militant little woman, who glared up at him. Pat placed his hands loosely on his hips, shifted his substantial weight to one leg, and cleared his throat with a sound that resembled smothered laughter.

"Don’t you think you should get off the bicycle, Grandma?" he asked. Mrs. Murphy pointed her broom toward Travis.

"He won’t stay off my grass!" Mrs. Murphy’s lips snapped together in an audible smack. "And now these people are trampling all over it. Make them go away, Patty."

Pat Murphy ran his hand through his hair, as he squatted beside his grandmother.

"Grandma, you have got to give the bicycle back to the boy."

"No."

"Grandma – "

"No! He keeps riding on my grass, and he’s not getting it back!" Mrs. Murphy gave the bicycle a sharp whack with the broom. Travis groaned. Pat pursed his lips. He stood up and put his arm around Travis’ shoulders.

"Come over here, Son." He led Travis a short distance away. "So you’re the bad boy who’s been driving my grandma crazy this summer." Travis bowed his head.

"I was just having a little fun," he muttered. "I didn’t know she could be so scary." Pat chuckled.

"She’s been scaring the hell out of me all my life," he said. "Tell you what. You promise not to ride across her yard ever again, and maybe we can settle this."

"I promise." Travis sounded sincere to me. It was quite nice to see him humbled. Pat went back to Mrs. Murphy, steering Travis to stand closer to her than Travis really wanted.

"Grandma, Travis wants to say something to you." Pat shifted Travis even closer to the old woman and her threatening broom.