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|Jan 9, 2005, 11:50 AM||#1|
Join Date: Jul 2002
Below you will find a story of a photo.
You are invited to share your photo story too!
As a change, I suggest that you tell the story of the photo but do not display it...at least for now...
Here is the story:
Rose was George's first true love.
He met her at a luncheonette, where she. worked as a waitress.
He'd always order the corned-beefhash with a sunny-side-up egg atop
it and a cup of black coffee. One day he snapped a picture
of her behind the counter serving him his plate of hash.
After he had the film developed, he showed her the
"Here's a picture of the girl I'm going to marry," he said,
Rose and George dated. He put the picture of her in his
wallet. When he'd go out with his friends or even when he
was among strangers, he'd pull out his wallet and show
them the picture.
"Here's a picture of the girl I'm going to marry ," he'd say
to them. "Isn't she beautiful? Her name is Rose."
Rose fell for George just as he fell for her. They soon
married. A year later, they had a son-me.
It was the three of us for several years until my mother died suddenly,
unexpectedly, from a stroke. I remember the wake and the
funeral and my father crying. I cried, too.
Several more years passed and soon I was in high
school. I was getting ready to go to the senior prom with
Jennie, my girlfriend at the time. My father had said he'd
pick up her orchid corsage at the florist for me. Dad
arrived at the florist late in the afternoon. He walked in
and told the owner he was there to pick up the orchid cor-
sage for Flynn. The man went to the case and returned
with the beautiful purple and white corsage.
"That'll be fifteen dollars," the man said.
My father took out his wallet, and as he was removing
the bills from their compartment, he showed the owner
the picture of my mother serving him hash.
"This is my wife-isn't she beautiful?"
The old man adjusted his glasses and looked at the
"Sure is," he said. "Is the orchid corsage for her?"
"No, no," my father said. "She only liked roses and
daffodils. I don't think I ever gave her an orchid."
"Well, it's never too late," the man said.
My father smiled sadly and said nothing more.
Dad left the florist, and at the back parking lot, two men
wearing ski masks approached him from behind. One was
carrying a revolver.
"Give me your wallet," .the man with the gun ordered,
thrusting the revolver's muzzle into my father's ribs. My
father handed it to him.
" And your watch, too," the other man said.
My father took off his gold watch and handed it to him.
"I know who you are. If you try to alert the authorities,
we'll be back some night to take care of you. Understand ?"
The two men fled on foot.
My father, shaken but unhurt, drove home and gave me
the orchid corsage.
"Are you okay, Dad ? You look pale as a ghost," I remem -
ber saying. "Is anything wrong?"
"No. Nothing's wrong. Have a good time at the prom,
The next week or so my father was quiet and subdued.
I knew' something was wrong. After pressing him a few
times, he finally told me the story .
"Did you call the police?" I asked.
"No. The robbers know who I am and where I live. If I
tell the police, they'll be back for me."
Although I tried hard to persuade him to call the police,
he wouldn't hear of it. What he did do was make certain
all the doors and windows were locked securely each
night before we went to bed. He seemed more sad, how-
ever, than afraid.
Two weeks passed. One evening, the front doorbell
chimed. My father jumped-then cautiously peered out
the window to see who was ringing the bell. He recog-
nized the man as the florist who had sold him the orchid
corsage. He went to the door, unlocked it, and admitted
the man. The man introduced himself and then reached
into his coat pocket and pulled out my father's black
"I found this in the shrubbery behind my store. I recog-
nized the picture of your wife. It's the only thing left in it."
He opened it and showed him the picture of my mother .
Gone was the name and address card, his driver's license,
his union card, his social security card, the money (about
forty-five dollars, my father recollected), and all other
pictures and papers.
"Today is my lucky day," my father cried loudly,
startling the florist. Dad tried to give him ten dollars as a
reward for finding the wallet, but the florist wouldn't take
it. He left and my father locked the door behind him.
"How can this be your lucky day, Dad ? All your impor-
tant papers and money are gone. Your watch, too."
"They can all be replaced," he said, smiling. "But there's
only one picture of your mother serving me corned-beef
hash. Only one picture!"
George M. Flynn
|Jan 12, 2005, 8:43 AM||#2|
Join Date: Nov 2004
What a brilliant idea!
Lovely story too.
|Jan 12, 2005, 7:23 PM||#3|
Join Date: Oct 2004
|Jan 13, 2005, 11:14 AM||#4|
Join Date: Jul 2002
Here are two examples from my personal life:
One, a photo taken in 1944 (a few years before my birth) of my father and his fellow Marines "somewhere in the South Pacific."
Eternal gratitude I feel for the Marines who had my father's back, especially those in Eternal Rest on a foreign shore. Children and grandchildren of my father exist today because of Marines.
Two, a photo taken of a former girlfriend (no longer in my life - long story - that one) high in the Tetons Mtns of Wyoming at a lake there.
She is holding an exquisitely, beautiful chalk drawing of a mountainscape she had just created. Behind her is the mountainscape itself. I close my eyes and I can feel the cool mtn breeze, the blaze of sun, the gurgly sound of waves lapping at the shore, the scent of the pines and her big-as-life smile.
|Jan 13, 2005, 3:24 PM||#5|
Join Date: Oct 2004
Oh, I can hear the pain in your voice. Some of my greatest writing/poetry/art has come out of moments/memories like those. Sometimes, your gut has to get ripped out in order to really experience what life and love are all about. It is amazing, though, that all these years later, many of us can recall the exact scent of a loved one or tragic moment, or the precise location of the sun...it is like all of our senses get turned on to "high" gear when our hearts are on fire from love or devastation.
Just an observation.
Here's hoping for more of the happy snapshots of the mind...
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