I don't know. Seems like the more you think about it the less odd people seem in comparison to everyone else. Is it just that we're all nuts? Could be.

     My friend Joan, for instance. I had met her a couple of times through mutual acquaintences but I wouldn't say we knew each other and I certainly wouldn't have said we were friends. The best I could say is that I would recognize her on the street. That may have been because she had a very pronounced case of seboria, though. Those things are pretty distinguishing characteristics. I could recognize her from the back better than by her face.

     When I answered the knock on my door, I was more than just a little surprised to find Joan standing there smiling broadly at me. A man was busy unloading large pieces of wood from his pick up truck into my driveway.

     "Hello," she said as if we were bosom buddies and stepped in the living room as if it was the most natural thing to do. Since I was still pondering what was happening in my driveway, Joan turned and peered out, too. "It's, OK," she informed me magnanimously, "those are for Sarah's birthday."

     Sarah, my daughter, would be three in a couple of days. I wondered how Joan knew. "Oh?" I waited for more information.

     "They're Charlie Brown cut-outs for the lawn," Joan generously supplied the information. "We can have a cup of tea before we put them up," she informed me as I watched the pick up truck back out of the drive and head on down the road.

     pOK, so I headed out to the kitchen to put the kettle on. This was really odd.

     Joan chattered away behind me about all kinds of things but I didn't pay very much attention. I didn't know the people she was talking about and I had never discussed ANYTHING with her before so most of what she said left me feeling like I had just arrived in the middle of someone else's conversation.

     Joan's conversation was bright and animated. She gestured broadly and smiled a lot. Her eyes were wide and round. When we finished the tea, she collected our mugs and deposited them in the sink. "Come on," she said, "let's get those lawn decorations up before Sarah is up from her nap." I followed her out to the yard wondering what in the world was going on. I didn't want to be rude, but I honestly hadn't a clue and was afraid to say much. Had I asked for these things? Had I intimated to a friend that I would like lawn decorations? Was she responding to a requests from one of those mutual acquaintances?

     I dutifully helped her set up Charlie Brown, Linus, Snoopy and Lucy in my yard. They were about 4 feet tall and, truthfully, they were adorable. The only ones invited to Sarah's birthday, though, were her 2 year-old cousin and a neighbor girl. I doubted the party was large enough to warrant such elaborate yard trimmings.

     Then I began to wonder what I was supposed to do with Joan. We lived out in the country. So did Joan. Miles from my house. There was no other car in sight and mine was currently non-operational. Not only that, both kids were down for naps and wouldn't be up for at least an hour yet. I had nothing in common with this woman that I could think of. She was at least 15 years older than I and, judging from the previous scintillating conversation, we shared few beliefs or opinions.

     "Well," she said, "that's just about perfect. I must be going now." She turned the broad smile back on me.

     "Is your ride coming back for you?" I asked, hoping she didn't expect me to take her home.

     "No. I'll just walk," she replied.

     "But Joan," I gasped, "it's at least 8 miles to your house!"

     "Well, normally I'd fly," she said rather sadly, "but I've been having a little trouble catching a good wind."

     I blinked. Twice. Then I backed up a step or two. "Oh?" That was all I could think of to say. I wondered if I had a good stock of garlic in the house and the little hairs on the back of my neck were prickling.

     "I suppose I could try again. It really would be faster," she smiled benignly. Then she stepped to the middle of the lawn, stretched up on her toes and stretched her arms wide. It would probably have been very funny just driving by and seeing that plump, middle aged woman waiting like an expectant kite on my lawn. As it was, it gave me the creeps. She was SERIOUS.

     "No," she sighed, "still won't work. Oh, well, this has happened before. Fortunately not very often, though. Now don't you worry, Margaret. I'm sure I'll catch a good breeze as soon as I get out there on the highway and out from under all these trees." She waived gaily and started off in the direction of her house. I watched until she was out of sight. Every once in a while she would stretch up like a rooster trying to crow and spread her arms wide for a few moments. She never did catch that breeze. I hoped someone would feel sorry for her and give her a lift.

     I was not really surprised to learn several days later that Joan had entered Damasch State Mental Hospital the exact same day that she delivered the lawn decorations. Each of my encounters with Joan over the next several years was about the same. She'd show up unexpectedly at my house, visit for a while and be admitted immediately to Damasch. I started thinking there was something definitely wrong with my personality.

     My husband disliked her instinctively and avoided her whenever he could. One morning in adult Sunday school, though, while the group of 15 or so people discussed the Psalms, the door to the Church slammed open and in burst Joan.

     "You damn hypocrites!" she spit venomously, staring daggers at each person in the pews. "Here you sit thinking you're all so good. Well, you're all going to hell. You're going to hell because you're damn hypocrites. You don't know anything about God or Heaven. I've been there. I know what it's like. God sent me to tell you that you can't come. None of you!" She was now swaying in front of the group, jabbing an accusing finger at each of the offending occupants of the building. She continued, her language and accusations growing more obscene and hateful. More personal. More vindictive. The adults sat as if mesmerized, not knowing what to do and fearing that she was dangerous in this state. Finally, my husband, Ken, rose and stood in front of her.

     "Sit down and be quiet, Joan!" he demanded.

     "Just who in the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do? Only my doctors can tell me what to do. Are you medically trained?" she shreiked right in his face.

     "Yes, I am!" he left no doubt.

     "Oh," Joan said quietly, "I'm sorry." She immediately sat down as docile as one could be and acted as if nothing had happened. The Bible study continued and now included Joan who did decline to add opinions.

     Telling about it, Ken still shakes his head. "I can't imagine how I could have bullied her so easily," he says in disbelief, "but I simply couldn't let her go on like that and no one else seemed able to take charge." Ken had been an EMT I for just a year. Joan always respected him as if he was a doctor after that and never questioned his authority over her. It was total and proved quite useful.

     Joan is a manic depressive.