Generations

Opa is German for Grandpa.

My Opa’s name was John,  one of 13 children, 8 boys and 5 girls.  He grew up farming with horses.

His influence on my life still casts a shadow.

In his prime, he stood  6 foot 2, weighed  240 pounds.  One of the gentlest,  soft heart-ed  men you would ever meet.  I heard it said more than once, there was not a person Grandpa didn’t get along with.  That’s probably where I get some of my disposition.  There were a couple of times however  he didn’t get along with everyone.

(Keep in mind he was a farm boy in his early twenties.) He and several of his brothers loved to wrestle in their haymow.   One Saturday afternoon   he stopped by  Heyen’s general store to collect a donation from Bill the  store owner.  Five  young men  were hanging around outside the store waiting for a  dance to begin.    Opa  said “hi”   but they ignored him.  Grandpa told me later, some of the locals didn’t like the  Germans.  As he walked out of the door a few minutes later, that’s when things got “interesting”

”As I came out the door of the store someone hit me from behind, the next thing I knew I had 4 or 5 guys piling on top of me.  After the initial surprise I got  up swinging. By the time I was done the last boy had run to his car and was crying like a baby.”

Life lesson from the farm  : Mess with the bull, you may get the horns.

Sara Groves sings a song  titled Generations.  One of the verses go like this: “Remind me of this with every decisions  Generations will reap what I sow  I can pass on a curse or a blessing     To those I will never know “

Powerful words.

Got time for a second short story?

When my dad (Opa’s oldest  son) began  attending  country school, (age 5)   he was teased mercilessly by one of  the other kids about his last name.  His name was Munk.   “monkey, monkey monkey”   It got to the point where dad didn’t want to go  to school.  Either the teacher didn’t know what was happening or refused to deal with it.

Opa said to me, “I made an appointment with the teacher and told him,  ” My son does not want to come to school. His name is Munk, not monkey.   Either you deal with it here at school or I will go to the father (of the bully) and beat the @%$# out of him.”   End of discussion. 

That’s all it took.    The teasing stopped.   I always wondered about that threat. Why was he going to beat up the dad?

Personality wise, I am a lot like my Opa.    I hate conflict.   Sometimes, because of the  world in which we live, we don’t have to go looking for trouble,  sometimes trouble comes looking for us.  At that moment, I  have a choice…get the tar beat out of me or stand  my ground.

If you have time, check out this clip by Sara Groves.  It puts a lump in my throat every time I watch it.

(You’ve been warned)

PS I posted this blog post on my other blog as well this morning.  My apologies to those of you that read both.  I try  not to do that too often  but this one seemed like the perfect post to celebrate Fathers Day and the end of  writers’ block.  I have posted this one in the past so you may have seen it before.

PSS

Thank you MJ and Writewild  for weighing in on the previous post on writers block.   I am feeling  better   Much better. DM

Writer’s block

Dear Linda,

(or whomever else feels inclined to weigh in on this conversation)

 I had a writing question for you, that you may (or may not) be able to answer.

 

I am finding myself with a large case of “writers block”

It feels like I’m  mentally constipated.

 

There is a lot of ” stuff” (material for blog posts)  starting to pile up, but I am finding it increasingly more difficult to get it out.

 

As I alluded to in one of my recent blog posts, we have a writer staying with us (has been now for about 2 months)  We’ve had some fun conversations about writing in general as well as me watching her wrestle with putting together some writing projects of her own.

 

So I’m second guessing anything I would want to post.   Sentence structure, improper punctuation, you name it.  I struggled with grammar back in 9th grade.  The rules  of writing (to me) feel like trying to grasp a foreign language.  It is like trying to understand a bunch of squiggly lines on a page.  It just doesn’t make sense to me.

 

An additional problem it seems is I am not motivated (enough) to master those same rules

Hence = writers block.

 

I did begin the habit of keeping a personal writing journal in the morning.  I get up, start writing, and some pretty neat stuff has come tumbling out of my brain.  Still in it’s raw unedited form but good stuff never the less.

 

So there is a part of me that thinks, I do have some level of writing ability.  Not going to quit my day job, but it is an activity I do enjoy.

 

So, any help, suggestions, direction, affirmations would be greatly appreciated.

 

Signed,

 

I’m stuck

 

ps,  I would love to hear from any of you that are already subscribers to this blog.  What was it initially that drew you  enough to my blog that you wanted to subscribe?  I’m curious because the answer to that may help me to identify who I really am as a writer.  I loath pretense and work really hard to “keep it real” when I communicate.  What is it in my blog posts that you enjoy (or appreciate)  Danka.  DM

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Buffalo Tavern

April 17th  a young singer/ songwriter/ poet moved into our B and B suite for  3 months. .  It has been so enjoyable to have her in the mix.  Last week she wanted to  watch “The Voice” on NBC.   That sounds like a simple enough  request, but since watching TV is not a priority around here, I had my doubts that the rabbit eared contraption would be able to deliver.  Both the wife and I would much rather read a good book, or spend time in deep conversation.

If you ever come to visit, bring a favorite book and read me a chapter

Below is one of my favorite stories from one of my favorite authors, Robert Fulghum:

_____________________________________________________

One Portion Of A Minister’s Lot concerns the dying and the dead.  The hospital room, the mortuary, the funeral service, the cemetery.  What I know of such things shapes my life elsewhere in particular ways.  What I know of such things explains why I don’t waste much life time mowing grass or washing cars or raking leaves or making beds or shining shoes or washing dishes.  It explains why I don’t honk at people who are slow to move at green lights.  And why I don’t kill spiders.  There isn’t time or need for all this.  What I know of cemeteries and such also explains why I sometimes visit the Buffalo Tavern.

     The Buffalo Tavern is, in essence, mongrel America.  Boiled down and stuffed into the Buffalo on a  Saturday night, the fundamental elements achieve a critcal mass around eleven.  The catalyst is the favorite house band, the Dynamic Volcanic Logs.  Eight freaks frozen in the amber vibes of the sixties.  Playing stomp-hell rockabilly with enough fervor to heal the lame and halt.  Mongrel America comes to the Buffalo to drink beer, shoot pool, and dance.  Above all, to dance.  To shake their tails and stomp frogs and get rowdy and holler and sweat and dance.  When it’s Saturday night and the Logs are rocking and the crowd is rolling, there’s no such thing as death.

     One such night the Buffalo was invaded by a motorcycle club, trying hard to look like the Hell’s Angels and doing pretty good at it too.  I don’t think these people were in costume for a movie.  And neither they nor their ladies smelled like soap-and-water was an important part of their lives on anything like a daily basis.  Following along behind them was an Indian-an older man, with braids, beaded vest, army surplus pants, and tennis shoes.  He was really ugly.  Now I’m fairly resourceful with words, and would give you a flashy description of this man’s face if it would help, but there is no way around it-he looked, in a word, ugly.  He sat working on his Budweiser for a long time.  When the Dynamic Logs ripped into a scream-out version of “Jailhouse Rock” he moved.  Shuffled over to one of the motorcycle mommas and invited her to dance.  Most ladies would have refused, but she was amused enough to shrug and get up.

     Well, I’ll not waste words.  This ugly, shuffling Indian ruin could dance.  I mean, he had the moves.  Nothing wild, just effortless action, subtle rhythm, the cool of the master.  He turned his partner every way but loose and made her look good at it.  The floor slowly cleared for them.  The band wound down and out, but the drummer held the beat.  The motorcycle club group rose up and shouted for the band to keep playing.  The band kept playing.  The Indian kept dancing.  the motorcycle momma finally blew a gasket and collapsed in someone’s lap.  The Indian danced alone.  The crowd clapped up the beat.  The Indian danced with a chair.  The crowd went crazy.  The band faded.  the crowd cheered.  The Indian held up his hands for silence as if to make a speech.  Looking at the band and then the crowd, the Indian said, “Well, what’re you waiting for? Let’s DANCE.”

     The band and the crowd went off like a bomb.  People were dancing all through the tables to the back of the room and behind the bar.  People were dancing in the restrooms and around the pool tables.  Dancing for themselves, for the Indian, for God and Mammon.  Dancing in the face of hospital rooms, mortuaries, funeral services, and cemeteries.  And for a while, nobody died.

    “Well,” said the Indian, “what’re you waiting for?  Let’s dance.”

Excerpt taken from the book All I Really Need To Know I Learned In Kindergartenby Robert Fughum

“The length of our days is seventy years- or eighty, if we have the strength;  yet the span is but trouble and sorrow, for they quickly pass….so teach us to number  our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.”  Psalm 90:10.12

Thursday and Friday night of this week  we stood in a funeral home receiving line to acknowledge the passing of two more people.   Combine that with my cousin Michelle’s unexpected passing and that makes for a busy month.   So, fellow bloggers and Internet surfers, make sure you are not just sitting on the side lines and watching life pass you by.  The Indian said it best.   “Let’s Dance! “

A little something to let you know I’m still alive and well. DM

This first clip is just three minutes long.  It will make your day.

This next one is on

the topic of vulnerability.  Let me know what you think. DM

The Poetry of Anne Maren-Hogan

“I can feel the grit of dust and crunch of downed cornstalks in these poems.  They are not nostalgic ditties, but instead are strong songs, often in a haunting minor key, that remove me to a time when many footsteps, from many families, from many homes, sounded on the Midwestern farm scape.”

Timothy Fay  (taken from  the back cover of Anne’s book of poetry)

Anne and Sam  with the Mrs and I  March 23 2013

I was introduced to Anne Maren-Hogan’s book of poetry this past November by her nephew Chris.

I would be the first to admit I am not a big reader of poetry….which makes what happened to me all the more powerful.

I can still remember sitting in Ms Burns 7th grade class reading “Jonathan Livingston Seagull. “

I got the impression something deep and profound was  going on in that story, but it was  beyond me.

(The same thing happened in Mr Newland’s slide rule class…..I felt  over my head and could not swim)

NEVER  wanting  to find  myself in that sort of discussion setting again.

Flash forward 40 year .

Chris  hands me a little book of poetry @ coffee break written by his aunt Anne. (Chris works with me)

In my mind, I’m thinking...oh/ no/  if I take it, he’s going to ask me later what I think…?

I will be exposed for the uncultured farm boy that I am.

I took the book.

I inhaled the book.

I discovered a writer that drew me in.

She wrote about growing up in a large farm family , not too many miles from me.

Here’ another quote from the back of the book:

“With narrative grace and keen insight, Anne Maren-Hogan celebrates the strength and perseverance of women.  Spanning two decades, the poems in The Farmers Wake offer a thoughtful meditation on family, place and culture.   The poems move beyond a chronicle of farm lief in the Midwest to remind us all of the very human connections we share with each other and this earth.  The landscape in these poems may be harsh and isolated, but the writing is rich and rewarding: stitching it all together with this certainty/ of leaving and returning as  Maren-Hogan writes in “Lifting My Eyes”  Pat Riviere-Seel

_______________________________

Anne and her husband Sam were back in the area this past week visiting family.

I’d built a multipurpose addition to our shop this Fall and had been wanting to do a “German Building dedication”

Last Saturday night, was the dedication.

Anne and Sam, joined us for a night of poetry/ music and mirth.

I asked Anne,  if she cared if I included one of her poem on this post.  So I did get her blessing.

I intended to include my favorite poem titled The Farmer’s Wake”

(It is about her dad’s wake)

I’ve had a change of heart.

I’m going to hold off  because  I feel like she  has shared something with us very precious and sacred.

A  glimpse into her heart.

I will instead give you a link to her book of poetry, so you could have your own copy.

_____________________

In case you stumble across this post later Anne, I just want to say  thank you again for  sharing your heart, both in your poems and for actually coming and reading them aloud .

I am a wealthy man.  DM

German building dedication

Lead carpenter (me) nailing the evergreen branch to the gable. 

“Also” Did he just say “also”????

A pit you don’t want to fall into

Jim  told  with  me  yesterday  he had been thinking about  the things I’d shared with him  the week before.

“What things?”  I asked with a smirk,   “What  did I tell you? “

(That’s one of the beautiful things about short term memory loss….every day is a new day)

He reminded me I   had vented some  anger  frustration  in the realm of relationships.  I had been  feeling devalued.

(Last week’s blog post came out of that stuff) 

Well, He said, “I thought more about it  and by the middle of the week  I  was also battling self pity.”

“also”…did he just say “also”?

Self pity is  what Junior High girls do, right????

_________________________________

After my conversation with Jim  I decided to look up the definition for self-pity:

     Psychiatrists have an interesting name for people who habitually indulge in self-pity–it’s “injustice collector.” These are the folks who are constantly dwelling on their hurts and hardships – whether real or imagined – and they enjoy thinking about them and talking about them. They lovingly collect and number each and every offense that others commit against them, and they search out people who will sympathize with them and commiserate with them. All this keeps the focus on themselves, which is what they want most.”

Dang, some of that felt a little too close to home.

That is the last thing I want rolling around in my brain!

I”m beginning to  think self pity is a lot more common than I realized.

I’ve been calling it other things  like ” being in a funk”,  “being down” “discouraged” “feeling rejected” feeling down”

My wife’s  daily devotional  had a warning about self pity this past Saturday:

“Be on guard against the pit of self pity.

  When you are weary or unwell, this demonic trap is the greatest danger you face.

  Don’t even go near the edge of the pit. 

Its edges crumble easily, and before you know it, you are on the way down. 

It is ever so much harder to get out of the pit than to keep a safe distance from it, 

That is why I tell you to be on guard.            

   from   “Jesus Calling”     

A Desire fulfilled is sweet to the soul

I had an opportunity to have several desires of my heart fulfilled this past week….

1.  Take a cross country train ride with my  girlfriend

2.  Spend my birthday in Seattle hanging out with  a blogging friend and her family.

3.  Check  out Pike’s market while we were in town

4. Experience the music scene of Portland Oregon with our musician friend Katie.

And best of all, I came home refreshed…I have  honestly figured out  how this leisure thing works.

If you’re a regular reader  on my other blog, some of this will  be old news.

 

Train pulling into the station

Last Friday night we boarded The Empire Builder in La Crosse Wisconsin.

We were headed for Seattle

Wife has taken the Amtrak a couple of times to Denver and Chicago, but I’ve never been on a train  before. (unless you count that tourist train in Boone Iowa  that takes you on a ride through the woods and over a bridge)

_________________________

Lacrosse Wisconsin. 

Friday night

As we waited in the Depot I  bantered  with an Amish farmer who was also waiting for the train.  He looked to be in his mid 40′s .He and his wife were getting away for a couple of days to see friends in Minnesota. He told me with a twinkle in his eye  they had 10 kids @ home who were keeping an eye on things.  I told him this was my first real train trip. He  didn’t know what to think about that.

About 7:30 PM the train pulled into the station…

There was a light snow was falling as  the conductor  scanned our ticket and told us which car to get on.

It felt like a “Norman Rockwellian” moment…

Or  I was about to step into a time machine…

 

Saturday morning Date 2

We woke up the next morning near Devils Lake North Dakota.

Blowing snow

wheat fields for as far as the eye can see…

Harvested wheat field of North Dakota

As we continued west, we went through towns with names like Wolf Point, Malta, Cut Bank, Sand Point…

Train station in Malta MT 

(didn’t realize it until after I took this picture but  it looks like a young Amish mother  and 4 of her children waiting for someone)

I kept thinking..I wonder how many more years these communities will have  train service..

50 years ago, 1000′s of small communities each had their train stations..You could hop on a train and travel to just about anywhere you wanted.

The train doesn’t come to our town any more.  The tracks  are no longer there….they are just a memory. I remember a work crew tearing out the tracks in the late 1970′s   The depot disappeared  in 1972 I’m thinking..

One of the highlights of the train ride was meeting Linda….a fellow traveler.. I think she’d gotten on shortly before we boarded..When she told us she was also headed for Seattle..there was an instant connection.  We were all in this “adventure” together.

She told us she was heading west to spend some time with her daughters and help out with a new grand-baby.

Sunday morning Day 3 of our trip

We woke up the second day in Eastern Washington state.  Barren apple orchards flashed by my window for several minutes.  As a fellow orchardist , I  would have loved to see those trees  in the Fall….

As we neared Seattle, I texted Kristina our soon to be hostess and told her I thought we would be about an hour late…not bad for traveling  2000 miles in the dead of winter through the Northern plains and Rocky Mountains…not  bad @ all

I heard someone ask the conductor about our arrival time?. Conductor said we were going to be on time…

whoops…

I retexted Kristina told her what  I’d just found out and told her we would be fine..didn’t want her to  stress out.

Got off the train, asked one of the rail car attendants if he would take our picture…

Just arrived in Seattle via Amtrak

I felt like Country Mouse coming to visit his cousin City Mouse

Here’s a view of part of the Seattle train station…

Train Depot in Seattle

Let me know if you’d like to read about the rest of the  trip…I’ll give you a link to the other posts.  g-nite. DM

“You can sit by me if you like….”

“You can sit by me if you like,” Jarret said to me at lunch today

“Do you know why I asked you to sit by me?”, he asked.

“No, Why do you ask me to sit by you?” I replied.

“Because I like you! “he said with a shy smile.

Jarret is 4 years old.

He has been asking me to sit by him now for the past three weeks.

Our crew is building a shop at their farm.

The family  has  invited us in for  lunch  almost every day we’ve been on the job.

When I sit down at their  14 ft farm table  I think,...this is what it must have felt like to be a part of a large threshing crew..

Grant Wood’s Dinner For Threshers

People with a real gift of hospitality are a dying breed.

Even here in Iowa.

It’s one thing to invite a few close friends over for  lunch once in a while..

I scratch your back, you scratch mine..right?

Well, …it’s a completely different ball game to cook lunch for  a construction crew of 4 , 5 days a week, for the better part of a month.

Today lasagna  was on the menu

Yesterday I thought  Jarret’s mom had asked if I wanted a piece of “cheese cake” for desert?
“Yummy I said..I love cheese cake…!

“No” she replied, I said  “sheet cake”

my bad.

Well, today, guess what we had for desert?

Cheese cake topped with a blueberry filling.

I had to pry the guys away from the table today….

They did not want to go back to work.

John said it was the best tasting lasagna he’d ever had.

While I’m thinking about it..here’s a recent crew photo

Crew photo

I work with a great bunch of guys.

The morale on this crew is second to none.

Nothing worse than working around someone with a bad attitude.

At this point in my life, when I’m looking to hire someone, the numero uno thing I am looking for is

ATTITUDE.

I don’t care if you don’t know how to properly hold a hammer or read a tape measure.

I can teach you those things.

What I really detest is a whiner or someone with a dark cloud following them around.

I am really enjoying  the guys   that is helping me out this Winter.

As I write this, I feel like I’m starting to fade….4:30 AM comes pretty early

Jarret’s comments were still rolling around in my head when I got home from work, and I wanted to tell you about it…

Yea, I’m assuming I have a couple of regular readers 

There is just something serendipitous about a 4 year old   requesting that I be his lunch buddy 3 weeks in a row.

I am a rich man.

I will miss Jarret when the job is done…

Heck, I will miss the whole family…

Here is a picture of the shop we’ve been working on:

End view of shop

One last thing before I sign off…

Did you know what the word Hospitality literally means?

Hospitality:  Lover of strangers

I believe it is more caught than taught…

Jarret is growing up in a home where it is being modeled in a powerful way….

If I were a betting man, someday when he has a home of his own, he will also know how it’s done….

Is there anyone in your life, with the gift of hospitality?  Tell me about them.

Please pray for a fellow blogger

I’m going to get right to the point on this one.  I met Joy probably  4 years ago now because both of us were using WordPress to blog.   While I’ve never met her in person, she has become a  friend in real life.

About a month ago, she found out she had some type of cancer that affects her blood.

She has been uncharacteristically quiet on her Facebook  involvement, so I shot an quick e-mail to a mutual acquaintance  earlier this week who sent me an update.

She needs a blood marrow donor and unless there is at least a 90% match, they won’t even attempt the procedure.

I’m sorry if some of the medical details are a little sketchy…I’m not @ liberty to tell you much more than this…in fact, I’m not even going to link back to her blog because I don’t have her permission and I know she’s in the fight of her life..don’t want to bother her with something like that.

One of the things that has surprised me most about blogging (I’ve been @ it now since late 2007)  is how some blogging relationships have turned into real, honest to goodness friendships, some of them quite significant.

I (DM)  looked into becoming a bone marrow donor this week after getting the update on Joy.  It  sounded like the marrow donor program are really looking for people between the ages of 18 to 44 so they kind of discouraged me from registering

Here’s a link to the national donor registry home page

So couple of things…if you are a person of faith, and believe in the power of prayer, please remember Joy the blogger in your prayers..and secondly, if you’re under 44 years of age, I would really invite you to consider getting registered w/ the bone marrow donor bank…sounds really simple and easy to do…

Thank you in advance! DM

Appointment with Love

I can still remember a Christmas eve , doesn’t seem that long ago…I was @ my grandparents, talking with my Uncle Bill.  I remember telling him I wished I had a girl friend…

There were absolutely no prospects on the horizon…none...nada…

He told me, you never know…that special someone might be just around the corner…

Would you believe I bumped into her less that two months later..

So my encouragement to you my fellow blog reader if that is your situation…

Don’t give up!~

The following story is for you

Sending you a Christmas Blessing.  DM

______________________________________________________

 

      Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over the information booth in Grand Central Station.  The tall young Army lieutenant who had just come from the direction of the tracks lifted his sunburned face, and his eyes narrowed to note the exact time.  His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him because he could not control it.  In six minutes, he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 13 months, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.

     He placed himself as close as he could to the information booth, just beyond the ring of people besieging the clerks…

      Lieutenant Blanford remembered one night in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of Zeros.  He had seen the grinning face of one of the enemy pilots.

     In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer: “Of course you fear…all brave men do.  Didn’t King David know fear?  That’s why he wrote the 23rd Psalm.  Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you, “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.”  And he had remembered;  he had heard her imagined voice, and it had renewed his strength and skill.

     Now he was going to hear her real voice.  Four minutes to six.  His face grew sharp. 

       Under the immense, starred roof, people were walking fast, like threads of color being woven into a grey web.  A girl passed close to him,  and Lieutenant Blanford started.  She was wearing a red flower in her suit lapel, but it was a crimson sweet pea, not the little red rose they had agreed upon.  Besides this girl was too young, about 18, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was 30.  “Well, what of it?” he had answered.  “I’m 32.  He was 29.

     His mind went back to that book- the book the Lord Himself must have put into his hands out of the hundreds of Army  library books sent to the Florida training camp.  Of Human Bondage, it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman’s writing.  He had always hated that writing-in habit, but these remarks were different.  He had never believed that a woman could see into a man’s heart so tenderly, so understandingly.  Her name was on the book-plate  Hollis Meynell.  He had got hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address.  He had written, she had answered.  Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.

     For 13 months, she had faithfully replied, and more than replied.  When his letters did not arrive, she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him.

     But she had refused all his pleas to sent him a photograph.  That seemed rather bad, of course.  But she had explained: “If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won’t matter.  Suppose I’m beautiful.  I’d always be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me.  Suppose I’m plain (and you must admit that this is more likely) Then I’d always fear that you were going on writing me only because you were lonely and had no one else.  No, don’t ask for my picture.  When you come to New York, you shall see me and they you shall make your decision.  Remember, both of us are free to stop or go on after that- whichever we choose…”

      One minute to six- he pulled hard on the cigarette.

     Then Lieutenant Blanford’s heard leaped higher than his plane had ever done.

     A young woman was coming toward him.  Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears.  Her eyes were blue and flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness.  In her pale green suit, she was like springtime come alive.

     He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.

      Going my way soldier?” she murmured.

      Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her.  Then he saw Hollis Meynell.

      She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her greying hair tucked under a worn hat.  She was more than plump; her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low-heeled shoes.  But she wore a red rose in a rumpled lapel of her brown coat.

     The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.

     Blanford felt that though he were being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companion-ed and upheld his own; and there she stood.  Her pale  plump face was gentle and sensible;  he could see that now.  Her gray eyes had a warm, kindly twinkle.

     Lieutenant Blanford did not hesitate.  His fingers gripped the small, worn, blue leather copy of Of Human Bondage, which was to identify him to her.  This would  not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even rarer than love- a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful.

     He squared his broad shoulders, saluted and held the book out toward the woman, although even while he spoke, he felt shocked by the bitterness of his disappointment.

      “I”m lieutenant John Blanford, and you- you are Miss Meynell.  I’m so glad you could meet me.  May…..may I take you to dinner?”

      The woman’s face broadened into a tolerant smile.  “I don’t know what this is all about, son,” she answered.  “That young lady in the green suit- the one who just went by- begged me to wear this rose on my coat.  And she said that if you asked me to go out with you, I should tell you that she’s waiting for you in that big restaurant across the street.  She said it was some kind of a test.  I’ve got two boys with Uncle Sam myself, so I didn’t mind to oblige you.”  Sulamith Ish-Kishor

from A  3rd serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul.