Ruth's Daisies

As I walked the road tonight after dinner, daisy faces took me back to childhood. In my mind’s eye I was wearing my faded red swimsuit and smashing hot tar bubbles with my calloused bare feet, swishing wild daisies with my spare hand as I passed on the way to the boathouse with a hot nickel tucked in my sweaty palm - payment for giving my mother a back rub. 

It was an almost-daily affair to visit Ruth’s little store back in the 50’s, a child’s paradise with its rack of candy bars.  Sometimes I picked a bouquet of daisies for Ruth along the way, but only a few since their stems were tough and had to be twisted rather than broken.  She loved those daisies as much as I did, or at least acted as if she did. 

Each time I pulled the wrought-iron handle on her black screen door, it stuck on the sand-covered concrete pad – so I slipped inside sideways, and helped it close behind me with a friendly little knock like no other sound in the universe. Ruth predictably smiled at me with joy written all over her red birthmark-covered face. She scrunched her shoulders, leaned over the counter on her elbows, and invited me to pick out my usual, a Heath candy bar, in exchange for the clammy nickel. 

With our transaction completed, she inquired about me: how many turtles I had in my collection now, what book I was reading from the library.  Surely we were planning to go out in our fishing boat for the academy band's annual moonlight serenade? Yes, I assured her we would follow the Fowler (a pirate ship, in my mind) the length of the lake and carry our lantern so other boats wouldn’t run into us.  Good, she was glad, and I’d better remember my favorite song and tell her about it later.

I almost wished I could twist the stems of tonight’s daisies, the whole clump, and take them to Ruth as a thank you for caring about me - but of course it is too late for that.  She no doubt passed on years ago. A plain woman by anyone’s standards, she chose to invest in the heart of a swimsuit-clad child with insignificant business, but a deep need for attention.  I can still see her face etched in my memory in great detail, especially her twinkly eyes, and I can’t say the same for any other significant adult in my childhood.