Mrs. Gilliland would never climb the steps or knock at the door, but would stand at the base of the porch and call out to my mom in a high-pitched falsetto: "Yoo-hoo! Betty."
My brother, sister and I became quite familiar with the drill.
"It's old Mrs. Gilliland again," I'd mutter under my breath.
Yet, the mere sound of her voice filled us with expectation. She always stood by our back porch with a plate in her hands.
She'd spend a number of hours each week baking in her kitchen. Her specialty was pie. She produced every kind of dessert tart you can imagine. There were berry pies, cream pies, custard pies, chocolate pies and summer cobblers. On the plate was a generous wedge of her latest creation.
My mom would open the door and step out onto the porch.
"Betty, I've made a cherry pie and I want you and the family to have some for dessert," she'd say, extending the plate for my mother's acceptance.
"Why thank you, Mrs. Gilliland, how kind of you," my mother would reply. "Bill and the kids will be delighted."
And delighted we were!
Though her pies were to die for, she produced an additional delicacy that I prized above all others: baked cinnamon swirls, made from leftover pie crust dough. Mmm!
My brother and I would devour the swirls the moment my mother closed the door and set the plate on the kitchen counter.
Sweet Mrs. Gilliland was our next door neighbor for three years or so, and we loved her. Because she was so good to us, we diligently endeavored not to trample her gladiolus when our baseball inadvertently caromed into her yard.
But the day came when Mrs. Gilliland stopped calling at our back door. We heard she was ill, and we missed her distinctive, "Yoo-hoo!"
She went to a hospital for an operation and never returned.
We saw her daughter at the house over the coming weeks, and soon a "For Sale" sign was posted in the front yard.