Banana Pudding, Beatniks, and Bongos

            by Susan Matthewson
            It was banana pudding day at Gundy’s, our neighbor across the alley, and we couldn’t wait. Meg and I pulled the lawn chairs into a circle in the backyard and put up the umbrella.

A widow in her 70’s, Mrs. Gundy lived with her elderly brother, Mister, and her spinster sister, Dearie.  Gundy’s afternoon snack time always featured a fresh-baked dessert and lemonade. Mama had warned Meg and me about hanging around like “beggars” at Gundy’s snack time, but banana pudding was our favorite and we couldn’t resist angling for the invitation we knew would come once Gundy saw us drooling over the fence. We just had to be alert that mama didn’t see us out her kitchen window or we’d be in big trouble. 

                Gundy was squat and chubby with twinkly blue eyes and white hair piled in a bun on top of her head. She looked just like the Pillsbury doughboy’s mother, round and pudgy and so soft she could have been filled with custard. I had a hard time resisting poking her to see if she’d giggle like the Doughboy.

                Snack time at Gundy’s could be a challenge, however, because Mister was mostly deaf and forgetful and Dearie could barely see through her thick goggle-like glasses. Sometimes it felt like being in a Marx Brothers movie with everyone talking to themselves and not listening to anyone else.

Like today, Gundy said to Mister, who was pruning the roses, “Mister, come eat. It’s snack time with Dearie, me, and the girls.”

                “You and who?” he said. “Who’s here?”

                “It’s Anne Charlotte from next door and her friend Meg.”

                Mister’s mouth gaped. “What? A harlot moved in next door with a peg leg?” he said.

                “No, Mister,” Gundy shouted. “It’s Charlie, Anne Charlotte, from next door. Our neighbor and her friend Meg.”

                “Well, it’s a shame when a harlot moves in to a nice neighborhood like this,” said Mister as he took his seat. “Next thing you know, there’ll be beatniks with beards and bongos.”

                Dearie meantime was serving the banana pudding, but her failing sight made it difficult. A big glop of pudding was about to splat on the table, so I grabbed a dessert bowl in each hand and followed Dearie’s hand trying to catch the pudding. Thank heaven Gundy was pouring the lemonade.

                I passed a bowl of pudding to Mister and one to Meg, then grabbed two more dessert bowls just in time to catch a big serving that Dearie was about to deliver into the lemonade pitcher.

                “Thanks for inviting us, Gundy,” I said, “I could eat your banana pudding all day every day.”

                “Going to Havana today, are you?” asked Mister. “Never been there. Supposed to have good cigars.”

                “Cigars smell bad, Mister,” piped up Dearie who turned toward him, jostling a ladle of pudding right over his lap. I dove under her arm with a bowl and managed to save Mister’s pants.

                 “Oh, my, remember how bad those cigars smelled that Papa smoked,” said Gundy. “I could not stand them.”

                “Well Gundy,” said Mister, “This is the first I knew you couldn’t stand him.”

                “Mister,” laughed Gundy, “I said I can’t stand them, not him.”

                “Well, wait until the harlot next door invites the beatniks over. There’ll be more than cigar smoke you can’t stand,” Mister harrumphed.

                Meg and I had to stuff our mouths with pudding to keep from giggling. When snack time was over, Meg and I helped Gundy carry the dishes into the kitchen. Then we helped Dearie put down the umbrella and called goodbye to Mister.

                “Goin’ home,” I called.

                “Gnome,” he said. “No, I haven’t seen a gnome, but there’s a harlot living around here somewhere so be careful.”

                “Okay,” I said. “Later.”

                “Don’t do any good to hate her,” he called back. “Sure is a shame though.”

                Meg started to say something but I stopped her. We loved those three old people so much, but like I said, it could seem like a Marx Brothers movie sometimes. This could go on forever. You had to know when to let it go.