The envelope, please

If ever a child pushed the envelope and stretched the bounds of adult patience, that child would be me. Amazingly, and with my pecadilloes cooling in the distant past beneath all the dust I raised taking the corner of Reynolds and Malinche on two wheels, I had the poker-faced audacity to be incredulous when my own progeny handed me the same envelope a couple of decades later and said, "Read this!"
It's as though I couldn't help myself when I drove [unnamed high school friend's] tiny blue Renault on the sidewalk that ran parallel to Malinche at the 2100 block of Lane. Its wheel base fit the sidewalk. No grass or foliage was mashed on either side. Granted, I seemed possessed, but really it was a scientific experiment. The question has always been: but was it about the width of the wheel base or was it about the volume the envelope would hold before it burst? Let me state for the record that I did not ask the friend who shall remain anonymous if or not I could drive the Renault onto the sidewalk. I don't want her to get in trouble.
What was that about? I'm not certain, but I will say that the 2100 block of Lane was a pivot upon which our world turned as youngsters. The backyards of the Longoria homes that sat side by side on Lane were the places we shot our epic 8mm films about the plight of farm workers and the Texas rinches, or a film that was our version of the not so horrific horror movie Mothra. Sometimes we just improvised and filmed irreverent character sketches of people we knew or hardly knew, donning a beige swmming cap to simulate baldness, staring blindly from eyeglasses that did not belong to us, and effecting the gestures of grownups that would become our own in good time. Our props were whatever was at hand -- a robe removed from a hook behind the bathroom door, an umbrella, a deck of cards, a broom, a hat. The extras in our films were housekeepers, children playing in the house or the yard, and pets.
I'm writing this because I am remembering with much tenderness the two Mrs. Longorias -- Louise and Mary Louise, the mothers, respectively of Mary Kathryn and Chacha, who if they were not the stars of our impromptu 8mm epics were definitely some of the stars of my juventud.
It is Louise's recent death that brings me to this moment. It is remembering that if she was angry with me because I had disappeared for hours to fish alone on a pier in Corpus Christi, she spared me the wrath any adult would have justifiably felt for a kid who broke from the pack without leaving word as to her whereabouts. It is remembering, too, her engaging, merry eyes and her kindness, her honeyed storytelling voice. It is remembering that she could make us double over with laughter at the telling of a story. You have only to say to me, "Don't let the stars get in your eyes," and I will giggle my fool head off remembering one such story.
Louise, the envelope, please.