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The Girl With the Rose
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 thirteen 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 now 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 one 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 - 7:00 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
7:00 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, sailor?" 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, she begged me to wear this
rose on my coat. And she said if you were to
ask me out to dinner, I should go and 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."
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