Mr. Robertson was about as old and mean as they come. He lived in a ramshackle house at the end of his street, surrounded by a fence made of hogwire and tin. Children and dogs avoided him when he’d walk down to the nearby store to buy groceries and tobacco. He exuded such meanness that even crows and other wild birds would not perch in his trees or on his fence.
He was tall, thin, and hunched over. A tiny wisp of white hair adorned his uneven skull and his teeth had turned brown from dipping. His sharp black eyes were piercing enough to intimidate almost anybody. Anybody that is, except his next door neighbor, Eva Jean.
She was a great big happy woman who loved to cook and grow flowers. Almost as round as she was short, she moved with great agility unusual for someone that size. Sometimes she would play the radio and dance around her front porch like a teenager, much to the disgust of Mr. Robertson. “You keep doing that, them boards are gonna cave in,” he was heard to remark.
Halloween came and went, with great flocks of children knocking constantly at her door. She would greet them with huge bowls of homemade candy treats that they would fight over later. Mr. Robertson watched this spectacle from behind his yellowed blinds, mumbling obscenities. Of course, no child in his right mind would knock on Mr. Robertson’s door.
Now with Thanksgiving approaching, Eva Jean was in the glory of her culinary talents. Local churches had bake sales to buy turkeys for those less fortunate souls around town and she was at the heart of each event. Mr. Robertson stayed indoors most of the time. The enticing smells emanating from her house haunted his dreams as well as his waking hours. He would dream of chocolate pecan cookies and coconut layer cakes, homemade bread and chicken casseroles. Then, he’d get up and look inside his refrigerator, only to find left over T.V. dinners and stale bread.
Church ladies came and went, picking up dishes of corn chowder and fresh biscuits. One day, someone noticed Mr. Robertson peeking through his blinds with an evil look in his eye. “Doesn’t that man next door give you the willies?” she asked.
“Don’t even notice the old coot most of the time!” Eva Jean replied with a smile.
“I’ve never met someone so unpleasant in my life,” remarked somebody else. Eva Jean just kept on smiling and rolling out dough.
“She’s up to something,” the ladies whispered.
Thanksgiving rolled in with a burst of sunshine and fresh air. Fall flowers were at their peak. Eva Jean’s yard was a riot of color and shape. Fragrance of petunias permeated the atmosphere, wafting through Mr. Robertson’s open window. Although he hated flowers and thought that cultivating them was a waste of time, he grew to enjoy the sweet scent as it swept into the corners of his musty abode. In fact, he’d taken to standing at the window and inhaling the flowery perfume. Eva Jean took notice of this unusual behavior and decided to take action.
She washed a small tub of sweet potatoes and peeled and cut them into little squares. Then, she put them on the stove to cook, adding sugar and honey as they boiled. Mr. Robertson began to smell the aroma. He had loved sweet potatoes as a child and took great delight in helping his mother dig them from the garden. When and where his joyful nature changed, he could not remember. He could only remember the dislike he felt in his life. Because of his nasty temperament, he’d never been able to marry or make friends. This new pleasure he felt in the enticing smells surrounding him were baffling.
He didn’t even know it was Thanksgiving until he turned on the daily news. Over at Eva Jeans’, folks came and went, laughing and hugging each other. He quickly shut the blinds so he wouldn’t see them. But somehow, he couldn’t shut out the aroma of sweet potato. In fact, he couldn’t get that out of his mind. He found a can of beef stew and stuck it on the stove, thinking that he was just hungry, but never ate it. Meanwhile, Eva Jean poured the sweet potato filling into some fresh pie crusts and put them in the oven.
Mr. Robertson shut the windows and doors. Even then, the smell of sweet potato pie remained with him. He began to pace back and forth through the house.Then, he began to curse the holiday, miserable in his dejection. Finally, he decided to take a walk and get out of range of the nearly intoxicating aroma. He walked and walked until it began to get dark, then started back down his street. Much to his surprise, there was Eva Jean, standing on her porch with a pie in her hands. “Here - I made you one!” she announced. Even though his first impulse was to groan and keep walking, he didn’t. He took the fresh pie, thinking he would faint from the effort, but he didn’t.
He heard himself mutter a “Thank you!” as he took the warm dish from Eva Jean. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she replied. He could not find any words, so he smiled in his awkward, tobacco stained way. “There’s turkey and dressing, too!” she called as he hurried to the safety of his home.
“I can’t believe you got that old buzzard to smile and say thank you!” exclaimed one of the church ladies that had remained inside.
Eva Jean just grinned her mischievous grin and said, “Just wait till I take this turkey out of the oven!”
