Time for a spoonful of sugar! ;^)
A nice Valentines Day Story
John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army
uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand
Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose
face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest in her had begun 13
months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found
himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes
penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul
and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the
previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he
located her address. She lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter
introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was
shipped overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and 1
month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was
a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard
requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really
cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. When the day finally
came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first
meeting--7 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll
recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So at 7 PM he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he
loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim.
Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were
blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her
pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward
her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I
moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way,
soldier?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to
her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly
behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked
under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust
into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly
away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to
follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit
had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood. Her
pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and
kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn
blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would
not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even
better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be
grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to
the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of
my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss
Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?" The
woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is
about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who
just went by, begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if
you were to ask me out to dinner, I should tell you that she is waiting
for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some
kind of test!"
It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's
wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the
unattractive. "Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell
you who you are."
