The timing could not have been better. I was in a blue mood, it was Father’s day, and it was creeping close to the hour of noon. I was in a bit of a hurry. I had spent the morning caring for my canaries and bantams, and I’d spent the evening previous cutting my back lawn and watering my orchids, along with my house plants.
I’d even waltzed the vacuum cleaner around each room of the house, to the country tunes to which my Little Lady loved to listen. My waltzing could loosely be described as a stubbed toe two step. So all was rather neat and tidy, with a reasonable degree of monarchy.
I’d been out earlier to deadhead the window box planters that bloomed on the front railing, and had returned once again to give them all a half strength shot of liquid fertilizer. I should have been in a good mood, but depression deepened. My thoughts, right then, focussed on heading to the place where our dead live. I wanted to place a bloom of an orchid on the headstone of my Little Lady.
It was just then, when I turned to go back into the house that I saw it. It protruded half-mast from the lip of my mail box, obviously hand delivered not many moments before. It was a plain white, sealed, business-type envelope, with the salutation Barrie Hopkins, neatly hand scribed, dead centre, on its otherwise blank front. I sat at the kitchen table, opened it carefully, and here is what, hand-printed, on white blue-lined paper, I read: Hi Barrie.
Hope you don’t mind my calling you Barrie but I’ve been reading your column for many years and I feel that I know you personally. Just wanted to say that I really enjoy the column … most of the time.
“You’ve made me laugh and you’ve made me cry. Especially after the ‘Little Lady’ passed. She sounds like the perfect woman and this is where I have a little difference of opinion with you.
“You keep saying that she stopped loving you. Well I believe that is the furthest thing from the truth. She will never stop loving you, I truly believe that you will be together again someday and she’s going to give you the what-for, for saying such a thing.
“Being in my 50s and being divorced for 30, never having children, never having a woman truly love me, being alone I can tell you I would love to have the memories you have.
“You are a very lucky man!
“Take care, ’cause we the readers care.”
This letter was signed with first name only, but past experience has taught me not to include names when reprinting. The letter ended with a “P.S. – We all miss the Little Lady.”
There has never been a thought in my mind that the Little Lady is not being missed by many. She was just that kind of a person. She was relatively quiet, quick-witted, with sometimes caustic quips of humour, especially in recognition of an insincere grin. And yet, on the other hand, she could recognize a face that needed a kind word, or a sincere smile, at a distance of half a mile. It was a knack that she uniquely chose, and mastered to perfection.
The reason I pass on to you this letter, word for word, as it was written, is because it reflects, in a nutshell, the feelings of many, many, and more, who have been so kind to write and comment. Without doubt, it is true that no-one misses her more than I, and the little things that I miss the most are the tweak on my ear accompanied by the proverbial, what-for, as she edited often over my shoulder.
I feel no need to longer hide the fact that I’m anxiously awaiting to be with her again, and I will know for sure, that I’m back within her arms for keeps, when she, as before, “starts giving me hell in heaven.” In the meantime, in between time, I’ll periodically place an orchid, where an orchid is definitely appropriate, on the solid granite headstone that in perpetuity marks her grave.
Take care, ’cause we care.