Today I'm going to share a story, one that you may of read, still is a pretty good tale. Romantic, granted, still I am kinda silly that way that I like that sort of literature.
John Blanchard stood up from his seat and straightened his neatly pressed army uniform as he studied the crowd of people making their way through the Grand Central Station in New York. He eagerly looked for the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun two years 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 margins.
The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and an insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name: Miss Holly Maynell. In time and some effort he located her address. She now lived in New York City.
He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next week he was shipped overseas for duty in World War II.
During the next two years they grew to know each other through overseas 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 a meeting at 7:00 PM at the train station. "You'll recognize me" she wrote, "by the read rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 PM sharp he was in the station looking for the girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.
In Mr. Blanchard's own words, this is what happened next:
A gorgeous young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were as 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 smile curved her lips. "Going my way, soldier?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step towards her - and then I saw Holly Maynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past forty, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, with her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as tough I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet not so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly been my companion overseas. And there she stood. Her pale face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate.
My fingers gripped the small worn copy of the book that was to identify me to her.This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders, saluted, and held out the book to the woman, even though I felt chocked by the bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Mynell. I am so glad we could meet; 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 that if you where to ask me out to dinner, I should tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of test!"
