It was a small town –a small, plain, town that no one would
spare a second glance at. There was really nothing special about the place. The
streets were cracked, the buildings old, and the downtown was home to the only
stoplight in town, which never turned green and guarded a mostly vacant
intersection. Regardless of the weather, the stores down town always had
business. Though you wouldn’t think it by looking at the mostly empty parking
spots that sat before them.
In the
winter, down town was bustling with life. Cars were parked along the roads.
People honked in frustration, looking for a place to rest their vehicle.
Tempers flew, people cursed, and then smiles were given. No matter how mad you
were at another, you always made sure to bring a bit of holiday cheer with you.
Yet, in
the summer, when the days are long and the sun too hot, very few cars could be
seen. With shorts and tank tops the townspeople wandered around on foot. Their
skin getting gloriously sun kissed. Shop owners loved those days. Their doors
would be propped open, box fans would be blowing beside them, and people would
wander in for the sake of getting out of the heat or for a friendly chat. It
wasn’t about business on those days. It was about community.
On one
such day, near the middle of the hottest season, a couple of kids ran out of
the local coffee shop. Their hands held freshly made smoothies in clear cups
with large neon straws. Their sneakers thumped as they raced after each other,
giggling.
“Run,
run, as fast as you can!” chanted the little boy with a mop of dirty curls. His
orange colored smoothie was held tightly in his hands.
Chasing
after him was a girl a bit older than he, with pigtails of the same dirty
curls. She had been entrusted with his safety for the hour, while their parents
socialized with the coffee shop goers…and the lumberman…and the sheriff…and any
other person they happened upon on their way to the town barbeque that was
taking place at the town square.
“Maxie!
Slow down!” The girl huffed as the distance between her and her brother grew.
“You
can’t catch me! You can’t catch me!” The little boy did a twirl in the street.
“Watch
out!” the girl screamed just as her brother tumbled back. Baby blues grew wide
as he tripped on the cracked street, falling back into a man riding by in his
motorized scooter.
“Woah,
careful there,” the man grinned down at the child who had fallen at the wheels
of his transportation.
The
girl rushed to her brother’s side. She quickly picked him up, her eyes scanning
him for any injuring. The man above them chuckled, and she looked up –knelt on
one knee and still holding on to her brother –to see him grinning down at them.
“Looks
like you gave your sister a scare there, little man,” the skin around the man’s
eyes crinkled with glee. His face was folded, as were his hands, from the years
he had endured. There was nothing more than a small wisp of snowy hair atop his
otherwise bald head. Freckles covered his face, and spread down his neck, like
someone had splattered chocolate across his flesh. His brown eyes twinkled at
the children.
“Sorry,
mister,” the girl apologized as she stood up and drew her brother closer to
her.
The
elderly man was a common sight around town. Though neither of the children knew
his name. They only knew what they saw daily, and daily he was seen driving
around town in his scooter with a bag of groceries and a camera in his wire
basket.
The man
chuckled again, his polo covered chest shaking from the force. “Now there,
there’s nothing to apologize for.”
“Sorry,”
the little boy mumbled.
“No
blood, no foul,” the man assured again. His smile was so kind that both
children found themselves lacking fright. In a town where everyone basically
knew everyone, they were standing before a man they had never met. A man who
everyone knew of, but didn’t know personally. At least, the children had never
heard anyone call him by name. He’d always been referred to as the flower man.
The man
had a reputation in town. Everyone knew of his daily routine. He’d leave his
small, one bedroom home early in the morning and spend the entire day riding
around town. He’d never go home without a bag of groceries and a new picture on
his camera. A new picture of a flower.
His
entire day was dedicated to finding the perfect flower to take a picture of.
And it had to be a flower he had never taken a picture of before. He’d ride
thought he parks, through down town, by the gas station, pass the police
station, by churches and homes. He’d inspect every flower he’d see. But, it
would take him hours to find one that he deemed photo worthy.
No one
knew why he did what he did. All they knew was that he seemed to enjoy doing
it. There was a rumor that he was a retired nature photographer, and another
that he collected photos of flowers. But the most wide spread rumor was that he
was a veteran who suffered Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. That rumor said that
he had fought in World War II and that, after seeing all the bloodshed and
losing all his friends, that he had come home and started taking pictures of
flowers as a reminder to himself that there was still beauty in the world.
Despite
there being rumors, and despite him being a frequent customer of the down town
shops, no one had ever asked him of his past. It wasn’t because they didn’t
care that they didn’t ask, but that they feared triggering painful memories.
They knew not what the man had experienced in his life, and they didn’t wish to
inflict pain upon him by inquiring of his experiences.
“Say,
do you two think your parents would mind if I borrowed you for a bit? There’s
this flower, in the barrel sitting outside Jenkin’s Hardware, that I’d like to
get a picture of,” the man asked. “Problem is, I can’t seem to work my camera
today. My hands are old and sometimes my bones down’ want to bend right. But
it’s important that I get this picture. Do you think you could help?”
The
brother looked up at his sister, who looked down at him before nodding. “Sure.”
The
man’s smile widened. “Oh good!”
He lead
the children across the street and to an old barrel that sat outside the
hardware store. With shaky hands, he carefully handed his camera to the sister
and instructed her as to how he wanted the picture taken. “That purple flower
there, dear. Get down close, so you can see inside. Not too close now. Back up
a little. That should be about right. Now, take the picture.”
The
girl pressed down on the camera’s button. A small click was heard as the
shutter was snapped shut. She pulled the camera away from her eye to look at
the image displayed upon its screen. “Is this okay, mister?”
“Yes,
dear,” the man praised. “That’s perfect!”
The man
took the camera from the girl and, for a moment he didn’t say anything. He
stared down at the picture of the purple daisy. Its petals were soft. The
lighting had been perfect.
“Do you
know,” the man spoke up with watery eyes. “Why I take these pictures?”
The
children shook their heads.
“They
say you’re a veteran,” the girl spoke, “that’s wants to see beauty.”
“They
say you’re crazy,” the little boy added.
“I am
veteran,” the man’s smile was sad now, “and I am crazy, but neither of those
rumors are right. I take these pictures because my beautiful bride loves
flowers. When we were younger I would shower her with flowers. She use to keep
the most beautiful garden. Children would flock to our home to gaze into the
pond and dance among the rose bushes, but sadly they’ve all stopped coming now.
Those children grew up, and had their own children, and made their own gardens,
and never come to call. But my bride, she still loves those flowers. She still
loves their smell and their beauty. She still loves the way the sun looks on
them and the way they can make a person smile.”
The man
paused, shutting off his camera and placing it back in his wire basket. “My
bride and I are frail now and gardening is not something we can do. She’s been
very sick. Has been for many years. She can’t leave the house now. Can’t even
leave the bed. So, I bring the flowers to her. Every day I take a picture of
one of the pretty flowers those children that use to roam through our yard have
grown, and I stop by the drug shop and have it printed out, and I give it to
her. You should see her smile,” he beamed. “Ninety-four years old and she still
looks as pretty as she did when we were sixteen. My Elma Mea. My lovely bride.”
The
children didn’t know what to say, so they stood silent until they saw their
parents leaving the coffee shop. The adults caught sight of them right away and
crossed the street to meet them.
“Well
you two didn’t get very far,” the mother announced.
“I’m
sorry, Sally,” the old man greeted the woman, “Your daughter was just taking a
picture for me.”
The
mother’s eyes softened. She opened her mouth to say something but was
interrupted by the man, who said, “I should be going now. I need to have this
picture printed.”
“You
should come to the barbeque,” the father suggested.
“Oh
no,” the man laughed, “All that smoke. Not good for my old lungs. You and your
family have fun though, John.”
“Will
do, sir,” the father smiled back as the old man began on his way.
“Daddy,
Mommy,” the little boy spoke up. “You know him?”
“I
thought no one knew him,” the daughter stated.
“Of
course we know him,” the mom smiled, her eyes watching the old man as he
thanked a young lady for holding open the drug store door for him. “We use to
play in his and his wife’s garden.”
“Mommy?”
the little boy asked.
“Yes,
baby?”
“Could
we go see him tomorrow?”
The
woman looked at her husband, who smiled down at their son. “You know what,
Maxie, I think that’d be a great Idea.”
