Wee Willie Winkie

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs, in his nightgown. Rapping at the windows, crying through the lock, "Are all the children in their beds for now it's 8 o'clock."


This nosey, bossy, peeping-Tom character from a nursery rhyme book that I used to read as a child at my Grandma A's house (I had a Grandma named Anne and a Grandma named Beatrice -- also known as "Grandma A" and "Grandma B") was one of the answers to a clue in my crossword puzzle book last night. I hadn't thought of this little guy in years, but the more that I pondered the poem, the more that I think he and I have quite a bit in common.

Although I don't wear nightgowns, obsess about bedtimes, or yell outside of people's doors, I too take nightly walks through my neighborhood, peering in at the well-lit interiors of apartments, curious to see who has big screen TVs, well-decorated living rooms (people hang things on the walls as if committed to living here for the rest of their lives), toys scattered all over the floor, a crowd hanging out at their place, or bored pets peering out at the exciting outdoor life just beyond their grasp. In these moments, the rooms are a collection of movie screens, lined up on a museum wall, and I march past, peering at each of the snapshots of human existence, piecing together random stories about the characters in the scenes.

Every once in a while, however, someone peers back at me and our eyes meet. The gig is up! They've looked at me looking at them, and I speed up to move quickly on to the next tableau, while they wonder about my story and wait for the next passerby to break up the monotony of the view from their sofa.