ShareThisIn February, when thoughts turn to love, I think of the year when I was 12, and two people I'll not soon forget: A good old woman and a very odd boy.
Let's call her "Miss Addie." I met her the day my family moved into a house next door to hers. She caught me stealing magnolias off a tree in her yard. Instead of having me locked up, as I feared, she invited me in for tea. After that, we shared tea and magnolias and thoughts on life almost every day.
She told me she was born and reared in that house, had left it only once to marry a Yankee and bear a son. When the Yankee died, she moved back home. Her boy, a widower now with a boy of his own, still lived up north. She visited them once a year, but they seldom came south.
That was fine with me. Miss Addie was a gift, and I saw no need to share her.
One day, as I walked home from school, she called, "Come hear my good news!" It was not good news to me. Her son had to go away, she said, so her grandson was coming to visit.
One of my stepdad's drinking buddies had gone away once.
"Is your son going to jail?"
"No!" she laughed. "He's going away on business."
I nodded. That's what the drinking buddy had said, too.
"Is your grandson in school?"
She studied the spots on her hands. "No," she said, finally. "John Allen is ... different."
She was counting on me to befriend him, she said, and maybe take him for walks. I did not want to parade around town with a strange boy in tow. But if Miss Addie had asked me to cut off an arm, I'd be writing this story with one hand.
Turns out, her grandson was not only different; he was easily the oddest boy I ever met. He couldn't dress himself, tie his shoes or tell a decent story. But he could spell like nobody's business. It was his favorite form of communication.
"John Allen," said Miss Addie, introducing us, "can you spell your new friend's name?"
Quick as lightning, he spelled out, "Magnolia thief!"
There was nothing that boy could not spell. We'd go for a walk and he'd spell out the names of passing cars: "Ford!" "Buick!" "Coupe deVille!"
We'd watch "Bonanza" and he'd spell the names of every member of the Cartwright household from Ben to Hoss to Hop Sing. Or we'd sit down to eat at Miss Addie's table and he'd spell all the dishes from ham to yams to pickled pig's feet. No collard greens. Collard greens made him gag.
Once, as we sat in the porch swing listening to the rain, John Allen ran his hand over my hair. Then he covered his face and spelled in a whisper: "Mother."
I'd seen a picture of his mother on Miss Addie's piano. She looked happy. And she had long brown hair like mine.
The day before his father came to fetch him, John Allen fell into a funk. He refused to eat or drink or even to spell.
It was Valentine's Day and Miss Addie had fixed us a party with sugar cookies and cocoa. He was having none of it.
"Cheer up, John Allen," she coaxed. "You'll be back soon. Besides, it's Valentine's Day and we are celebrating love."
She gathered him in her arms and whispered in his ear.
"Love never ends," she said. "Nothing can ever sever it."
Then she leaned back and, for a moment, studied his face the way I had seen her study a magnolia, for the beauty and truth it held. Finally she asked, "Can you spell 'Valentine'?"
And with that, John Allen, strange wonder that he was, stuffed two cookies in his mouth and sputtered out the proper spelling of my name.
(Sharon Randall can be contacted at P.O. Box 777394, Henderson NV 89077, or at www.sharonrandall.com.)
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