My wife and I live in an old country farm home. I don’t know how old it actually is, but easily dates back into the 1800s. When this home was built everyone used outhouses, and although it was gone before I moved here in 1976 there is no doubt one would have been here. Back in the day a lot of people planted lilac bushes near their outhouse as a deterrent to odoriferous conditions. We are fortunate to have the prerequisite lilac remaining at the corner of our home. Each spring for well over a hundred years that lovely lilac has bloomed as one of the first spring flowers in this area.
Each spring for the first few years we lived here a wonderful little lady would stop her ancient automobile beside the road in front of our home. She would come to the door and ask if she could pick some of the lilacs to place on her mother’s grave in the cemetery in sight of our home. Of course, she was always welcome to do so. I never learned her name, or place of abode, but after several years she stopped coming to place those Decoration-day lilacs.
The above true story formed the basis of the fiction I wrote below several years ago.
Bless You For The Roses
Leo Lawton
Tom had been a hard worker in his youth, but after the accident he was never the same, and hard labor, which was all he knew, was now out of the question. The train yard where he used to work was sorry to lose a good man, but they couldn’t be expected to pay a man that couldn’t work could they? In his heart Tom longed for the day he could return to the yard and earn a good honest dollar like he used to, but his head told him it was impossible.
Marilyn had picked up where Tom had left off. She went to work in the cotton mill, sitting twelve hours a day at the looms. The problem was that she was only paid about half what Tom used to earn in his ten hour shift. Only infrequently could Tom find some odd little chore he could complete for a neighbor with his one good arm, but the income from that made little difference in their day to day existence.
Mary and Tommy were both willing to help with the family income too, but Tommy’s shoe shine stand did little business on the cold January days. Everyone wore overshoes as they trudged through the snow, and they were not about to stop and remove them to have shoes polished to complete a shift in the mill. Mary mostly did chores around the house that it seemed her mother never had a chance to do. Once in a while she baked a batch of sugar cookies, took them to Tommy’s shoe shine stand, and attempted to sell them, but few people had money enough in 1930 to buy sweet stuff.
When spring arrived the lady came again. The poor lady had no money, but she always stopped by to ask for a single rose to place on her mother’s grave. Marilyn was home because it was Sunday, her only day off from the mill. She watched as the elderly lady picked a small blossom. Marilyn picked a larger one and asked that she place it on the grave for her. A little weaker each year, the frail old lady shuffled off to the cemetery up the road. As she slowly returned past the house, she spoke to Marilyn who was hanging a bit of wash out to dry. It was Sunday, but she had no other day. The old lady spoke, “Bless you Ma’am, I talked with mother, and she told me she loved the roses.”
Tom asked who the lady was. Mary said she thought she lived over near the Sprague place. She had heard the poor old lady went through the garbage cans over at the little café by the mill in the night, sifting for morsels.
Summer and fall sped by, and once more it was winter. The mill was having a hard go of it, and there were rumors of it possibly shutting down. As it were Marilyn was working only four shifts a week. Her lowered income barely put food on the table, much less anything else. Lord, how was she to put anything in the kid’s stockings on Christmas Eve? There were patches on the patches on Tommy’s trousers. If only she could afford even a small ribbon for Mary. She had such beautiful hair. She was behind seven months on her $12 monthly mortgage payment. How much longer before the bank foreclosed?
The postman, who never stopped at their mailbox, made a brief halt one day in mid-December. Mary rushed to get the small package addressed to “the folks at 101 Ruffles Lane.” For the remainder of the day she could hardly wait for her mother to return from work. Her father would not open the package. He said, “Mother is now the breadwinner and it’s her responsibility to handle the mail.” The hours dragged by as Tom and Mary took turns staring at the small brown paper wrapped package. What could it be? Tom decided it must be some sort of practical joke. They didn’t know anyone that would, or could, send a Christmas present, but what else could it be? Mary chose to wonder if it could be some small item her mother had ordered from the catalog store.
When Marilyn returned from work, long after dark, she was met at the door by her daughter saying, “Mother, come quickly, we have a package.” Marilyn picked up the package as Tom and Mary watched in anticipation. She slowly removed the string holding it together, then began unwrapping the dirty brown paper. She clasped her hand to her mouth to suppress a scream as she dropped the package. Wrinkled dollar bills scattered across the floor. It had to be some kind of a mistake. This must be meant for someone else. She checked the address on the paper again. It said, “them foks at 101 Ruffles Lane.” That was their home. Who could possibly be sending them money? While Mary bent over and picked up the spilled bills, Marilyn studied the brown wrapper, and noted on the inside, printed in small neat letters were the words, “Bless you for the roses.”
Mary softly spoke, “Mama there’s more’n a hundred bills here.”
The destitute old lady didn’t return the next spring.
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