True Story 3: Roses for Stephanie

Leslee raced with bowlegged strides down the middle of a deserted lane.  The hot dust rose behind him as his small bare feet struck the road.  In his grubby hands were a dozen wild daisies, their stems limp in his grasp and their heads bouncing as he ran.

           

Seconds later, the rumpled redhead stopped beside two great oak trees.  He knocked and waited a moment for an answer.  "Come in," a little girl called.  "I've almost got supper ready.  Will you stay and have some?"

           

The lad walked in—shy, yet eager.  He hid the wilting flowers behind his back as he teased, "Stephanie, I brought you the flowers you wanted, but you make this house pretty all by yourself."

           

Stephanie turned, whipping her blonde pigtails around.  "Where are they, Leslee?  Where are my roses?"

           

"Here are your roses, Stephanie.  I picked them for you myself," he admitted proudly as he pulled out the bedraggled stems.

           

"Oh, Leslee, these aren't roses at all!  They're only wildflowers."

           

"But Stephanie . . . the wild roses weren't blooming yet, and these were the only ones out there.  Someday, I'll get you the real ones; but can't we pretend these are roses for today?"

           

"No, Leslee.  Daisies just aren't the same," she exclaimed as she cast the broken stems in the stream outside the back door of her grapevine house.  "Let's wait to play house again until the wild roses bloom again."

           

So saying, Stephanie left her forest playhouse in despair.  Leslee was not so quick to leave.  Staying to take one last look at their deserted hideout, he noticed the tangled strand of flowers caught among some rocks just below the stream. 

           

Quickly, he waded in until his rolled-up pants nearly touched the water's surface.  Leslee leaned down to retrieve the rejected offering and glanced back up just in time to see dainty pink ruffles disappear around the bend.

True Story 2: Lovesick

William McGowan made it home from World War I just in time to plan a Christmas wedding with his lifelong sweetheart, Ida.  Everyone said they made the perfect couple.  Whenever they were together, her practical approach to life made the perfect foil to his zany charm and incessant humor.

Bill's homecoming party was a time of great rejoicing.  The tiny town of Topaz, Missouri, consisted mostly of his mother's Turnbull family connections.  Bill and Ida were the toast of the town that night.  Women of the town presented them with a friendship quilt in the double wedding ring pattern.  William's right ear ached abominably, but what was that to having a clear bill of health from the army doctor and a pretty girl on his arm?  He ignored the pain and enjoyed to the full their time in the spotlight.

It was not to be their last time with the town's full attention.  The lovely Ida, in the full bloom of youth and beauty, came down with a fever the next week.  She died of influenza three days before Christmas.  At the precise time planned for their wedding, Bill McGowan and Ida were interred side by side near that same little church on the hill.  Bill McGowan had died a day after his intended bride of an acute ear infection.

But family lore to the third and fourth generation said that Bill McGowan died of a broken heart.

True Story 1: A Field of Goldenrod

It was August of 1945.  The still, close heat of Missouri summer called for iced tea and an afternoon nap in the hammock on the front porch.  But it lay unoccupied, and the house was silent.  William Henry Ash and his lovely wife Lydia walked with their seven daughters and a few grandchildren across the hillside pasture to meet their returning son.

Children splashed playfully across the creek while their young mothers stepped gingerly across the slippery stones.  As they waded through the golden blooms on the far hillside, Mildred stooped to gather a bouquet for her dearest brother.  His tall, uniformed figure appeared on the crest of the hill.  She shielded her eyes from the sun until close enough to make out the strong, young face.

His gentle smile broadened in recognition of the familiar faces coming to meet him, and he scooped the smallest girl up into his arms.  Soon everyone had gathered about him--laughing and crying, chattering with news, and peppering him with questions.  Winford smiled, new creases appearing around his eyes, and laughed at the loving confusion that prevented any answer.

He accepted the bright yellow flowers his sister offered, and thanked her warmly. The whole family joined in laughter as he promptly sneezed.  It was a bouquet of ragweed.  He retrieved a handkerchief to wipe watery eyes and hugged Mildred close.  She never forgot that day.