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.
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