Wilma Richardson, Rest in Peace

Cancer has claimed the life of another one of my favorite people—this time our beloved ex-neighbor Wilma. Now, after almost 10 years of friendship, I’m sitting here doing the only thing that makes any sense—thinking back to all the times we shared and laughing my ass off.

It all began back in 1999 under strange circumstances. After less than a month living at 2608 Moundview, I was out washing my ’68 Impala for the second time that day when a little old lady growled at me from across the street.

“COME HERE . . . NOW!”

I was halfway up her driveway, when she grabbed my arm and began giving me the details of a somewhat complicated situation. Apparently, this other little old woman who lived next door to her had passed away and “the asshole” who owned the property was mad because he was going to have to find a new tenant. The landlord’s lack of respect for the fact that the woman had died seriously pissed Wilma off. Having never met either one of the little old ladies ever before, I still wasn’t entirely clear why she’d called me over.

But she cleared that up quickly when she ordered me to grab two metal trashcans stashed on the East side of the deceased woman’s garage. I paused for a moment, looking at her as if she were crazy. I guess I felt like I needed some kind of explanation before I walked up to someone’s house and stole their stuff.

“That asshole who owns that place is NOT getting her trash cans. They were hers and if he thinks he can just have ‘em he’s got another thing coming,” she said, seething with contempt.

Her explanation would have to do. She lit a cigarette and watched me gather the two silver galvanized garbage bins, hooking one to each hand.

“Where do you want me to put these?” I asked, noticing that she had a big, modern plastic bin on wheels parked near her front door.

“Around back, on the porch. I’ll find SOMETHING to do with them.”

That’s how it happened—at least as far as I can remember. No hellos. No casseroles or “Welcome to the Neighborhood” banners. Just Wilma—raw and uncut. No bullshit. No shows. Such a strange way to make a new best friend and yet so perfect.

In a world of assholes, Wilma was never afraid to call ‘em out and stand up for what’s right. I only wish everyone I know could’ve met her at least once. Five minutes with Wilma could make one hell of an impression on a person. Even if you didn’t like her, you most definitely respected her.