The Dandelion

Dear Margaret,

I just don’t understand young people anymore. Today, when I stepped out for my afternoon smoke, I saw a young woman with pink-tipped hair and dark clothes in the park across the street, sitting in the pouring rain talking to a flower, of all things. I think she must have been on drugs. Or at the very least, a mental patient. It was disturbing watching her mutter things at the flower, a raggedy old dandelion I think, and then rock back and forth. I found it all very unsettling. I think she had a satchel with her, but I’m not sure. The rain was quite heavy. She didn’t look homeless exactly. Her clothes were far too clean and in good repair, albeit soaked from sitting in the rain. She may have been from the college. She had that intentionally shabby look that the college kids go for these days—baggy pants, t-shirts, trainers. The college types are getting crazier as the years pass. It also doesn’t help that marijuana is legal here now. Young people don’t need any further temptations. Alcohol is bad enough, but weed as well? Teenagers go off to school, get their heads filled with strange ideas, and have mind-altering substances at their fingertips. It’s all too much for a youngster fresh out of the nest and out in the world on their own!

Ah, well, I hope things are well with you, Margaret. Talk soon.

Love, your brother,

Tom

Tom capped his pen and replaced it in its usual spot on his desk. Tom’s family had owned this old Victorian house on the edge of College Hill for generations, and Tom himself remembered the early days when the men of Brown wore sharp suits and the women of Pembroke College dressed demurely. The town versus gown tension always existed to some extent, but Tom began to notice it most in the 1960s. The school was integrated, with its own NAACP chapter and women professors. A woman student even played in a men’s hockey scrimmage disguised as a man! It was a complete outrage. With the protests against the Vietnam War, a woman editor of the student newspaper, and black students walking out demanding that more black students be admitted, the ideas coming from the campus were utterly unfamiliar to Tom. These students lived in a privileged bubble that seemed completely alien to Tom’s ordinary life in Providence. The world Tom knew had order, discipline, a natural structure, with everything and everyone in its proper place. When that heathen Janis Joplin played at Brown’s Spring Weekend in 1969, he knew the school and the students had totally lost touch with reality.

A former textile family, the house was all that was left of Tom’s family’s heyday. After the last mills closed in the 1950s, Tom turned to construction and worked on the city’s numerous revitalization projects until his retirement. He was a foreman on the Providence Place Mall project, a monstrosity in downtown Providence that attracted many of the college students and rainbow-colored hair crowd. Tom never shopped there.

Brown had so many foreign students now, Tom couldn’t understand them when they spoke. Why didn’t they go to school in their own countries? And Tom certainly didn’t understand why anyone would want to dye their hair unnatural colors. It wasn’t neat or orderly. To Tom, it seemed like a pathetic cry for attention. Just live with what the Good Lord gave you, for crying out loud.

Tom saw the young pink-haired student again on Saturday. She had returned to the park on a sunny day this time, and Tom noticed that she had a little notebook covered in multi-colored stickers and pencils. Sketching the flowers as she murmured to them, the young woman pulled out different colored pencils and began adding color to her drawing. Tom was fascinated with the delicate movements of her hands, how confidently she reached for the perfect color, never second-guessing her choices. He stepped outside to observe more closely, and she waved at him. Astonished that she had noticed him, he awkwardly waved back, out of politeness, and immediately returned inside.

Dear Margaret,

I saw the young student again today. You won’t believe it, but she is an artist. This time, no rain, thankfully. I noticed that she had a notebook and pencils. She was sketching frantically, still talking to the flowers like a loon, but I suppose all artists are a little loony, aren’t they? It was amazing to watch her work—the way she chose her colors, so decisive. It was like she knew the perfect color exactly, without hesitation. I wish I was as confident. I stepped outside again to watch her more closely, and she waved at me! Can you imagine? Most Brown students ignore me entirely. She is a strange one. I still can’t rule out drugs, because that first episode was rather strange, and, well, some artists have been known to dabble. Picasso, anyone? In any event, it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened around here in ages. More to come.

Love, your brother,

Tom

Several days passed, and Tom’s mood was downcast. The park had been empty for days, with not so much as a squirrel to keep Tom company. Was it exam week or a break? Tom felt foolish wondering if the young woman would return to the park. He didn’t even know for sure that she was a Brown student. She might just be a crazy homeless person. Providence certainly had plenty of those. The poverty rate for citizens of Providence had been high for years, and Brown with its non-profit status certainly hadn’t helped, in Tom’s opinion. The school spent much on its students, which he supposed was fair, but it should pay more for all the land it held on College Hill tax free. Tom’s tax rate on his family home rose by 30% since Tom inherited it from his parents. He didn’t want to lose it after all these years due to some stupid tax bill.

Shaking himself out of his internal rant about taxation, Tom glanced out the window and saw her strolling to the park. The pink was beginning to fade from the ends of her hair. The strap of her brown leather satchel crossed her body, and the bag bounced at her back as she strode briskly toward the park. A thunderclap boomed out overhead. Tom grabbed his umbrella and ran outside to meet her.

“Hi, my name is Tom. I think you might need an umbrella today.”

“Thanks so much! My name is Grey. I always forget mine.”

“Grey … that’s a lovely but unusual name.”

Grey laughed, “Yeah, it’s what my friends at school call me. My real name is Isabella. They call me Grey, because I wear a lot of dark colors.”

“Well … Grey … Do you go to Brown?”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“Lucky guess,” laughed Tom.

Dear Margaret,

Today, I did something reckless. I spoke to the young student. You see, she came to the park to draw again today, and it started raining. As it turns out, she is an artist, and a very good one at that. She is also quite forgetful and never remembers to bring her umbrella. Isn’t that just like our Uncle Marcus? How Grandmother fussed at him for never remembering his hat or coat when he went to the mill. But I digress.

Her name is Grey, or at least, that is her nickname. Her friends at Brown call her that because she wears mostly dark colors. I was right that she is a Brown student. Her real name is Isabella, and as I said, she is an artist. She is also studying to be a writer. Isn’t that delightful? Do you remember how Mother used to write funny little poems for us when we were young? I still have the one she gave me when I turned 18 and joined the navy. I kept it over my heart to protect me the entire time I was gone, my special lucky charm.

I know Grey is a strange name, but you know artists. She is a little quirky, which suits her nickname and her hair, but not on drugs or insane, I am happy to report. Her imagination is vast. It is no wonder that Brown accepted her. What I saw her doing in the rain was a class assignment: selecting a piece of nature that spoke to her (spiritually or emotionally speaking), drawing a picture of it, and then writing a fictional piece about it. I don’t think she meant to be speaking out loud to it, but she was asking questions in her head about the flower, how it got there, what its perspective on the world might be, what the world’s perspective on it might be, and so on. It’s a remarkable way to think of ordinary things like dandelions, don’t you think? I have always viewed them as annoying weeds, but taking the time to view them closely and really consider them, well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?

I think I may be rambling. I promise I haven’t taken any drugs, my darling sister. I simply have opened my eyes and my heart to a new way of thinking. Life is too short not to notice and really appreciate everything and everyone you encounter.

I forgot to tell you about her drawing. It was so beautiful and lifelike. A slender green stem from which branched three smaller stems, each containing a bloom. One had opened completely, the second was still a bud, and the third was in the process of dying. The entire cycle of life in one flower. The yellows were so vivid, like the sun on a beautiful summer day. The greens were soft and gentle, like spring. Grey’s name does not do her justice, and my poor word choice is also not conveying her artistic choices very well. Her use of color is magnificent! I wanted to seize the flower from the page. Such a talent in someone so young.

We also spoke about her hopes and dreams. She wants to become an author-illustrator. I, for one, hope she manages it. I would read whatever she writes.

She asked me about my life too. I felt small and boring, but I told her about us. How our family ran through the mills until the mills went away. How you left town after our parents died, and I went into construction. How I live alone in this old house across from a ramshackle park full of weeds. She really seemed to listen. I haven’t experienced that before with one of their kind. I offered to cook her dinner some time, some real New England seafood, and she accepted. We have a date for after she completes this project, to which I am very much looking forward.

I hope you don’t think I’ve lost all my marbles.

Love, your brother,

Tom

The morning of the dinner, Tom swung open the door to his favorite clam shack and inhaled deeply of the briny scent of the sea.

“Hullo, Tom, what’ll you have today?

“I need one dozen quahogs for clam cakes and chowder, Bob.”

“Sure thing. These are fresh, take your pick.”

Tom carefully chose the best clams for his dinner with Grey, paid for his purchase, and took the clams back home, on ice. He spent the afternoon soaking and preparing the clams for cooking. Using his mother’s recipes, Tom prepared Rhode Island clam cakes and clear clam chowder, both of which involve clam broth. Rhode Islanders dip the hot clam cakes in the chowder. When made with fresh Rhode Island quahog clams, it’s absolutely delicious. Tom wasn’t sure if Grey was old enough to drink beer, so he made fresh lemonade to go with dinner.

When Grey arrived, she was overwhelmed by the effort Tom put into the meal.

“This is so much better than anything I get at the Ratty!”

Tom smiled at her, as she eagerly reached for another clam cake and dunked it into her chowder. It was nice to have a young person in the house again. The drab furnishings perked up a little bit at her presence. The tired old chandelier over the dining room table seemed to shine a little brighter. The old house seemed to be making an effort.

“How did your project go?

“Wonderfully!” Grey exclaimed, between bites of clam cake. “My prof loved the dialogue with the dandelion. I got excellent feedback from my peers as well.”

“That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you!”

“How’s your sister?” Grey asked.

“Oh, well, she’s not the best at writing letters. I will probably hear from her closer to the holidays or my birthday.” Tom shrugged.

Grey seemed displeased. She couldn’t imagine not speaking with her own family for that long, but then again, she used her phone regularly. She made a mental reminder to text or call her mom and dad tonight and tell them about Tom and this delicious dinner.

“Tom, I love to cook. You must teach me this recipe. I would love to learn how to make this!”

Tom blushed, secretly pleased that Grey took an interest in his mother’s recipes.

“You know these are Providence specials, right? Clam cakes and Rhode Island clam chowder, none of that creamy or tomato-y nonsense that the rest of New England does. Just pure clam broth and herbs. That’s all you need.”

Grey nodded her head, eagerly finishing the last clam cake and drops of chowder.

“I completely get it. Why cover up the salty, sea-infused goodness of these clams? Only a total lunatic would do that.”

Tom laughed as he hadn’t in years.

Dear Margaret,

I had the most marvelous dinner with Grey tonight. She is honestly the most delightful young woman, articulate, thoughtful, polite. Her parents did well with her. I cooked Mother’s recipe for clam cakes and chowder, and she loved it. Ate every bite. When we were finished, she even helped me with the dishes. I didn’t know young people did that anymore. She also asked for the recipes, because she likes to cook. Astonishing, I know. I thought young people only ate fast food or microwaved things, but she actually knows how to work a stove. She has promised to cook me a Greek dish called saganaki that involves shrimp and feta cheese. I am looking forward to it.

Grey also knows her manners. She’s too young to bring a bottle of wine to the host, of course, but she brought me something else, something worth far more than wine. At the end of our night, Grey turned to me and said that she had brought something for me. I had no idea what to expect. Out of her satchel, she produced her dandelion drawing, telling me that since her assignment was over, she wanted me to have it. She even signed it, with her real name. I could hardly believe it. I tried to refuse, but she insisted, saying that she could not afford anything else in exchange for my generosity in providing her such a delicious home cooked meal. I think it may be the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me. I am going to get it framed today and will hang it in the sitting room, beside the window overlooking the park.

Who knew it was possible to make new friends at my age? I’m so glad Grey stopped to draw that dandelion.

Love, your brother,

Tom