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 girl 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 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 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 be 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 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 and 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.”