"GODDESS OF LOVE IRIS"

It's Spring 

and 

time 

for

a

love

story!

The Kid From Vinegar Hill

They were an older couple.  I’d seen them there before.  I was having my usual Friday (after the beauty shop) routine lunch with my Aunt Delores and friend Pauline.  Steaks to order, with hot food bar, salad bar, fruits, jellos and puddings.  There were lots of deserts, plenty of choices, healthy and not.  But there’s no orange cake.  Could not believe it, no orange cake!  I threatened to stage a stand-in till some orange cake appeared, but the other diners just kind of stared at me.  The waitress said they “were out.”  Impossible!  They always have orange cake.  Well, little did I know that something bigger and better and much more important than orange cake was going to happen that Friday? 

They always sat at the same table, when I’d seen them there.  Over by the wall, a table for six, but just the two of them, side by side and not across from each other.  I guessed they chose that table so they could sit side by side; obviously you couldn’t at the rest of the tables, square, four seaters. 

But this time, we had arrived first.  I noticed them coming in the door. 

They walked around the entrance.  She was slow, slightly stooped.  He was helping, holding her arm.  He stopped and got her settled at that table before going in the line to pick up the tray, silver, plates, and to pay.  She looked disabled, a little - just not quite in touch.  Dressed neatly, but a sort of blank look, hair grayish and permed, but straying about in kind of loose frizzy curls.  He came with the tray and stuff and set everything out for her first, then himself.  He made several trips back and forth to the buffet, bringing her food, setting things about in order for her.  Then he made a trip or two for himself.  I watched them kind of over my shoulder as our meal went on.  I could see that she was feeding herself very carefully.

We finished eating first, of course.  At this point, I’m yearning in my heart to speak with this couple.  They are behind me.  I have to turn half way around to see them.  Since I’m the driver today, I ask my partners if they’re in a hurry. They say ‘not.’ 

“Okay,” I say, “I’ve got to talk to those people over there.” 

Pauline, “Oh, do you know them?” 

Me, “I’m about to.” 

Aunt Delores gives me one of those quizzical looks (what’s she up to now?). 

Pauline, in her usual trusting/anything goes manner, says simply, “Okay.”

Soon, he makes another trip to the buffet and returns.  I wait a couple minutes.  Then I go.

“Hi, I wonder if I could sit with you for just a couple of minutes.”  She looks up, not exactly confused, but certainly questioning.  He smiles, clear blue eyes, and says, “Yes, it’s okay.”   (Thinking back, I wonder if he might have even been glad to have ‘conversation’.) 

So I begin:  “Well, I don’t want to take up your time, but I collect love stories.  I don’t have to know your names or impose on your identity, but you look to me like ‘a love story’.  And I have to ask!  Because I collect love stories.”  He smiled the biggest smile, and his eyes lit up like a sunny sky.  “Yes, we do have a love story” he said.

“I don’t want to make your food get cold.  I just need to know the gist of it.  Tell me how you met.”  I direct this to her.  She looks at me, good eye contact, but her face is blank.  But I see something in her eyes, it’s almost a smile, but questioning, something desperate, like she wants to tell me, but she just can’t.  He speaks, “She can’t tell you, but I will.  She’s had a stroke.”  I smiled at her and shook my head in affirmation.  Told them I’d been a nurse and understood.  She seemed to relax.

He began, “She was in the eighth grade.  Her folks moved from West Frankfort to White Ash.”  He looks at me with raised eyebrows, a question mark. 

“Yes, of course, I know where White Ash is.”  I respond. 

He says, “I grew up in Vinegar Hill.”  Looks at me again.

“Yes, I know Vinegar Hill.  I grew up in FudgeTown.” 

He smiles and goes on.  “Well, I used to take walks up and around White Ash.  She was always out in the front yard in a swing.  I thought she was so pretty.  I was a freshman in high school.  So I’d walk up there all the time.  She’d be sitting in the swing.  She just kept getting prettier and prettier.  I said to myself, ‘I’m going to marry that girl someday’.  The next year she started high school.  We dated and we were sweethearts.” 

I interjected, “So, this was not puppy love?” 

He responds quickly, “Oh, no!  It was real true love.  It was a miracle.” 

I glance at her.  I swear she’s smiling in her eyes, gleaming, but the rest of her face refuses to cooperate.  I smile at her.  She lifts her head up and straightens her shoulders, then just slightly nodding her head.  And I know she’s smiling inside. 

“So we got married in 1950,” he said. 

I’m doing quick math and coming up with 50, no 60, well, 63 years. 

“So you are married 63 years?”

And he replies, “Yes, in August.” 

I congratulate them both and express my admiration.  He says she had the stroke three years ago, no speech since, that the doctor and therapists told him ‘no hope.’ 

But he says, “Where there’s life, there’s hope, and as long is God is in it . . .”  He pauses.

“You’re not giving up,” I finish it for him.  He nods.  (I thought he might have a tear in his eyes.  It was that kind of moment.  But, no, there were no tears.  He’s smiling again.)  I agree, “As long as God is in it.”  And I can see in her eyes that she is truly a miracle.  She must have been a beautiful little girl.  In some ways she still is.  He loves her just the same as then.  And even more!

I thank them, and leave them to their dinner. 

I walk away with a tear in my eye, but a smile in my heart.  Because they are still, really, husband and wife; somebody’s father and mother.  They are God’s creation and a wholesome witness in 2013 of His plan for a kid from Vinegar Hill and a pretty little girl from White Ash.

As I get close to the Exit door, I turn, look back and he waves.  I wave back and then I wait.  He pokes her arm and points and she turns and waves.  And I’m sure, she smiled.

Copyright - 2013 - Doris Grant Frey