He's now retired and works his 'Hobby Farm' tending his orchards. he's an amusing fellow and very enterprising. I've never met a more placid man in my life!
Sandpipers spending the non-breeding
This story doesn't ask anyone to forward it or take
any action other than to read and enjoy.
The Sandpiper
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on the
beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four
miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me. She was building a
sand castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to
bother with a small child.
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I
asked, not really caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of
sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my
shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come
to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I
muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was
depressed, my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give
up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm
Robert Peterson."
Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on. Her
musical giggle followed me.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called.
"We'll have another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy
Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning
as I took my hands out of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to
myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited
me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the
serenity I needed.
"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do
you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with
a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked
sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again.
"I don't know what that is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of
her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.
"Over there." She pointed toward a
row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on
vacation"
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the
beach, but my mind was on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said
it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and
agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly
when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone today." She
seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother
died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is
a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the
day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with
her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to the
beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I
missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the
door. A drawn looking young woman with honey-coloured hair opened the
door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert
Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she
was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in.
Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you.
If she was a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful child."
I said, suddenly realizing that I meant what I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had
leukemia. Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my
breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked to
come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what
she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her
voice faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can find
it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to
say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with
"MR. P" printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing
in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six
words - one for each year of her life - that speak to me of harmony, courage
and undemanding love. A gift from a
child with sea blue eyes and hair the colour of sand - who taught me the
gift of love.
1 comment:
I never expected my morning to begin with tears at 6:30 am, John. How very touching .... thank you for sharing.
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