THE WAY IT WAS DURING THE LAST WAR...

THE WAY IT WAS DURING THE LAST WAR...
Originally uploaded by roberthuffstutter

THE STORY OF HOW I CAME ABOUT MY ALMOST COMPLETE COLLECTION OF NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC MAGAZINES By Robert L. Huffstutter

CHAPTER ONE

When I was a little kid (child), I had an elderly couple who lived across the street from me. She was a cheerful lady, always out in her yard tending to her flowers, always wearing a floral bonnet tied up beneath her chin with long, wide strings.

Those outfits she wore were nearly as colorful as her garden.

And her garden? My, what an array of floral splendor, but a most informal type of garden. It was only in the last few years that I learned the definition of English garden. Thus, it was an English garden she was tending, all dressed in her gingham outfits and bonnets, always smiling.

She had the cheeks of a character illustrated in a very deluxe and leather-bound tale of English fables with graphics that were the state of the arts in the late 1890s. She was a child of the 19th century who had grown old and grand in the mid 20th century. But more about her as the feminine half of the couple I mentioned before entering upon this detailed and refined description of the lady whose name was Mrs Bresingham, an English name, perchance, but it was the name of her man, her husband, that male counterpart of this couple I want to tell more about, but in time.

Now, Mrs. Bresingham would trim her garden with snippers as I watched, tossing leaves and greenery behind her but never near me. She sensed my presence before she peered up with her blue eyes that knew no shadows and only reflected the sunlight that streamed through the gaps between the many diverse and mature trees that adorned her yard. But not her yard alone, for it was her husband's yard too.

"Hello, Bobby," she would speak so precisely as our eyes met. And her eyes were so blue they fascinated me. It was only later in life that I imagined they might have reflected the sea near the White Cliffs of Dover on a clear day, but at that time, at that moment in time, I had yet to hear about the White Cliffs or the songs that were sung about them in the war years. And the war years had ended only five years from the time when this scene I am describing took place.

"Hello, Mrs. Bresingham," I would respond and stand at a kind of attention stance, watching her.

Alas, she would take off her gloves, lay down her shears and adjust her bonnet while untying her chin strings. "The mister is expecting your visit, " she would say softly. "He is so happy you are going to visit with him for awhile."

CHAPTER TWO