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.
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