Tell me who you love
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 girls 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 fertil 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 by 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 the admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The
true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive.
"Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell you who you
are.""
