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| Source: Unknown |
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 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.
