| OCR Text |
Show CHANGING TIMES - FEBRUARY1994 - 11 _ Req u_est_for appeared by whim or accident when Applications/ walked away and left behind him on the sand a large and delicate flower. from Jarnes’s perch above, it appeared a lily. An exquisite lily. That evening, as James sat on the stoop of his cottage, he remembered the early morning scene. He looked down from the dune. the flower was gone. the tide had advanced and retreated, and with it, the exquisite lily. The sand was smooth and unscratched. Nothing remained of the old man’s random tenderness. James decided to remember the incident as one of those pleasant little happenings life gifts to us occasionally, the hour had passed, the old man Letters of Interest If you have interest in serving on the Town Council, please submit a written application now. Please keep in mind that Town Council seats are working positions requiring a good deal of time beyond monthly meetings. Appointment will be made at the regular TC meeting on March 16, 1994. Letters should be mailed to the Town of Castle Valley before March 10. Person appointed must be over 18 years of age, a registered voter, and a CV resident. CVSR Box 2705. and let it go — old man, lily, and all. But the next morning, about an hour after sunrise, the man returned. He Lily This is a story told to me by James Carrol when we were chaplains at Boston ‘ University. It happened g?) to him; it is true. I share the tale. James rented a “writing shack” on Cape Cod. One afternoon, from his cottage on the high dune overlooking the surf, he saw a man on the beach below. The man walked slowly, slightly hunched over. He wore an old coat and a broad—brimmed hat like people wore in the late forties. It was obvious the man was old. Perhaps he was looking for shells or beach glass, so slow and hunched over was his walk. But when he came to the spot where the sand was broadest and most clear of rocks, he stopped. James saw the man carried a stick. He stood facing the ocean, not moving for a long time. then he put his stick down and took off his hat. He moved slowly. Bending over was an effort for him. He took off the coat, folded it once, and bent to put it by his hat. He wore a collarless gray shirt and suspenders. then he picked up the stick again. The bending and stooping seemed painful. The old man began to scratch in the sand with his stick. He seemed to be making random markings on the edge of the water with a slight push here and long pull there. Some of the marks were straight lines; others were graceful cuwes. He never stepped back as if to get a finer perspective, nor in any way did he assume the bearing of a knowing artist. The movements repeated the ritual of hat and coat and, after his hunched-over seratchings, he left another lily in the sand. And so it was the next day, and every day thereafter. One day, at the post office, James described the old man. Old Shaughnesee, they said. The Irish tinker lived in a shack just down from the light. He lived alone. Never had any mail, coming in or going out. He traveled the towns, sharpening knives and fixing kettles and things. He came in handy; had been doing it for years. Never talked much so no one knew him well. as for the flowers in the sand, no one knew about that. Wouldn’t be surprised, though. Sounded like something the strange old man would do. After a month, James could tell if the old man was down on the beach. He always woke in time to watch the lily take shape. I was as if the flower was as much a part of the morning as the sun. Often James wanted to call out to the old fellow or fun down and speak to him. He never did. Afraid, perhaps, of coming between whatever the flower was to him and his silence over it. James even thought of suggesting that he draw in the sand farther back from the sea so the tide would not wash the hard work, the beautiful work, away. He didn’t suggest it, though. Perhaps the old man did not care. One day late in summer, James did run down from the high dune. He ran with all his heart, half falling all the way. The old man had just finished the lily when, instead of going up the beach like he always did, old Shaughnesee turned and walked into the sea. James tore across the sand and the lily and crashed into the water. He reached the old man just after he went down. there was no struggle. James pulled and dragged him shoreward, though he thought the old man was dead. But when they had reached the shore, the old man looked down at the flower and saw it had been kicked away, half ruined. He reached out his finger to retrace a line. Then he spoke: “Let me go. Let me go to my lily.” And then old Shaughnesee died. James went later to the old man’s shack. He knew without having to decide that he would take Shaughnesee’s body to his family, if he had one. In the shack he found some tinker’s tools, a few old clothes, a battered flag he didn’t recognize, and a very old photograph of a pretty young woman. There were papers in a tin box. His name was Brian Shaughnesee, and he was born in Cobh, Ireland. Cobh was a small village in County Killarney on the far southwestern shore of Ireland. It was cool and misty when James arrived with the body. At the mayor’s house James announced he had brought the body of Brian Shaughnesee for burial, and the mayor said “come.” They climbed into the tram, the coffin behind. the mayor directed the driver without speaking and they drove down an old dirt road to the sea. Finally the mayor said, “Brian was full of zeal during the rebellion years. they made him swear by Holy Mother never to return. His leaving killed his Lily.” at that, they came down a steep hill to the beach. There was a plot of high ground near the water. An weathered tombstone stood alone by the shore. the mayor said, “Brian would want to be buried here with her.” As they drew near the grave, James saw that it was surrounded by dozens of exquisite lilies in full bloom. they were the only flowers James saw growing in Cobh. The mayor saw him staring at them, and he said, “Strange. they are always there. It’s as if they grow out of the sea for her.” Is there a moral to this tale? Perhaps. We have river sand, dune sand, sand on the mesas, in the can- yons. Scratched a name, a Valentine, into them lately? Cast the image of your heart’s affection to the wind, the water? Consider it! It’s never too late. And who knows where and how it may show up. —Donovan Roberts |
