Last week I bid a final, and fond, farewell to a long-time pal, Rose Ann Hickey.

Rose Ann lived two houses down from me for at least 30 years. She was a wonderful gal — bright and kind, fun and funny, always upbeat and engaged. She was an excellent teacher, a devoted church-goer, a friend to many and an animal lover. She also was a magnificent role model for living graciously and courageously with a deadly disease.

In spite of all her admirable qualities (and maybe because of them), she activated my inner miscreant: While we had our share of serious conversations, almost all our interactions over the last quarter-century involved me teasing her one way or another.

Anyone who knows her and me knows one thing about us — I always referred to her as Old Lady Hickey. I first dubbed her that in a column I wrote about her and her precious raspberry bushes. Specifically, it was about her raspberry bushes and my dog, Brother Phineas the Pug Thug.

When her raspberry bushes were full of fruit and Phineas and I walked by (which I confess we did every day they were full), we’d cop a raspberry or two (or maybe 22 — I can’t remember). And best of all, we did it fast and in tandem: Phineas learned to snag them on his own, right off the stem, leaving both my hands free to pick my own stash.

At some point Rose Ann solved The Case of the Reduced Raspberries. Then, lying in wait like the neighborhood narc or some darned thing, she caught us en flagrante delecto — me, red-handed; Phineas, red-lipped. After I wrote that up in my column, that escapade stayed a source of laughter between Rose Ann and me. And something else stayed as well — the handle Old Lady Hickey.

Another constant between us, also born of rascality: Every time I walked, drove, biked or jogged by her place and she was out in the yard, she always gave me a big smile and wave. And in return, I always gave her a big nose-thumbing. But here’s the weird part: Every time she reacted with shock and a scolding shake of her index finger.

I think it was the schoolteacher in her — she just couldn’t accept that a friendly greeting was returned with a gesture of old-time schoolboy snottiness. Of course, I couldn’t understand why she kept reacting like that. I only knew as long as she did, I’d keep cocking a snook. If she’d either laughed or ignored my boorishness, I’m sure I would’ve stopped it early on (and no doubt “progressed” to some other annoying prank). But since she didn’t, I didn’t.

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Mailbox magic

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But all the interactions we had pale in comparison to The Great Winter Carnival Caper, which took place about 15 years ago.

The Carnival Committee announced that year’s theme, which was Hearts on Fire, appropriate enough, since Valentine’s Day would fall on that weekend. It was a theme that stirred deep within my soul, hopeless romantic that I am. I was alight with joy, thinking of My Home Town thawing the February freeze with 10 days of Love Unbounded.

But — Alas! — that was not to be.

Not long after they announced the theme, the committee revoked it and changed it to Pirates. Their rationale? That Hearts on Fire was too abstract, too complicated or too something for people to readily relate to it.

I wasn’t merely miffed at the change — I was outraged! And I let my indignation be known. My next column took those villains to task, but good.

Hearts on Fire too hard to relate to? Get real.

Change the theme to Pirates? Oh, lemme guess, a town full of men with eye patches and women decked out as tavern wenches, all yelling “Rrrrrgh” endlessly. Could anything be more cliche?

We’ve gotta be a village of fighters, not lovers?

And on and on I went with my philippic. But in it was one plaintive note. I said I’d been so deeply touched by the Hearts on Fire theme that I’d decided to buy Old Lady Hickey a big box of chocolates.

Now here’s the thing: I may have teased Rose Ann, but I never underestimated her. She was sharp as a tack and never missed a thing. If I wrote I was going to get her a box of chocolates, I knew she’d catch it. And to make sure I didn’t get hoist with my own petard, I made a pre-emptive strike.

Right after that Friday’s Enterprise hit the newsstands, I went into the Post Office Pharmacy and bought a box of Russell Stover’s finest. Next I had Ann Marie Peer do her gift wrap magic and took the treasure home. Then, in the still of the pitch-black night, I snuck down to OLH’s place and slipped the swag in her mailbox. I knew finding it would take her by surprise — but I never expected how big a surprise.

Early the next afternoon I went for my morning run. And as luck would have it, as soon as I got to her mailbox, who came out the front door, but OLH herself, herself.

“Hey!” she yelled.

I stopped on the spot.

She stood there, hands on hips, the embodiment of The Ultimate Schoolmarm.

“All right,” she demanded. “Where are my chocolates?”

“Chocolates?” I said, a look of feigned confusion on my face.

Neither of spoke for a bit, then I broke the silence.

“Oh,” I said, reaching in the mailbox and whipping out the box with a flourish that would’ve made Mandrake the Magician proud, “you mean these chocolates?”

She exploded into uncontrolled joyous laughter.

I handed her the box and immediately took off on my run … and never looked back.

At least not then.

Since then, I’ve looked back on that moment, and on her, quite a lot.

And I expect I always will.