Blue Willow
I don’t remember a whole lot of my grade school years. Those spent in Catholic schools I really don’t want to remember. Public grade school better memories. My fifth grade year at Burwell was the best. The old red brick building still stands beside Minnehaha Creek.
I didn’t get into much trouble that year except for a fist fight in the boy’s bathroom that brought our teacher full steam ahead into our inner sanctum. She was a tough lady and knew how to handle boys. Also, there was the time I got a pencil stuck in my cheek. It took a trip to the nurse’s office to fix that.
It was the Blue Willow story that really captured my attention. One day, my teacher brought a blue and white dinner plate to class and told us the legend of the Blue Willow. It was a story of long ago when China was ruled by emperors. There was a magnificent pagoda, fruit trees, a bridge, and a beautiful girl who feel in love with the wrong man. The lovers were caught and were about to be killed when the gods turned them into doves. A tragic love story memorialized on a plate by a 18th century Englishman.
I have no idea why the Blue Willow plate still sticks in my mind. Could it be that it was my first exposure to something visual outside my life experience? Was it the tragic story of love gone wrong? Maybe it was the only thing that made sense to me in fifth grade. The truth was I was madly in love with a girl in our class who wouldn’t give me the time of day. My first romance gone south like the Blue Willow doves.
It was at my twenty-fifth high school reunion that I ran into that fifth grade flame. For some strange reason, she reached out and gave me a kiss on the cheek. Some things just take a long time.
Thank you, Blue Willow memory, for teaching me that love does springs eternal.
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