Our own little Beulah

Growing up on Glenstone in Mountain Home, Ark., you knew Beulah. She lived catty-corner to us. She liked to sit in her living room with her chin on the back of her couch, looking through her picture window at all us neighbor kids causing a ruckus. We were terrified of her and pretty sure she would kidnap you and toss you in her basement if you put one toe into her yard. She sat on her front porch, swatting flies and giving all us kids the stink eye. If our kickball went into the ditch in her front yard, it was curtains. We usually traded off who was the one who had to go sprinting in there. Oh, and did I mention that she was always topless? Yeah, she was. Old-lady bras aside, Beulah was known around the block for her nosy nature. Leigh always calls me Beulah whenever I peek through the blinds to spy on the very few not-so-fantastic neighbors we have. Turns out, I might not be the only Beulah in our house:

At least she had a shirt on.