Memo From Mac

 

                                                                   

The Emporia Gazette
Emporia, Kansas

On A June Sunday 

1947

She had the appearance of a girl who had just been whistled at by June. She was walking briskly down the country road near the grove south of town. Her green and white-checkered dress crepe-rustled around her legs as she went. She was all dressed up for Sunday morning wearing the strange corsage. She had stooped and pulled a dozen stalks of wheat from the waist-deep field whose green is just beginning to reflect the color of the sun. She made a bouquet of the fat, long-bearded heads, broke off the stems and twisted them into a soft knot. Then she added a handful of wild oats pulled from the roadside and clipped it all to her dress with a bobby pin.

A little farther on she saw a lonesome hollyhock, pale-skinned with little veins of red spider-webbed through it, which she reused and tucked in among the green wheat heads.

Then she was ready for her entrance. She strode back to town, hurrying home for Sunday diner, like a Prima Dona coming from the wings on the opening night. The elms over Union Street politely touched fingertips to make an arch for her. As her spiked heels clicked on the stones the sun followed her with its spotlight, tossing little daggers at her head, making her brown hair rusty. She sang and the long wheat beans danced on her bobbing shoulder. She carried the specter of little white, brown-eyed flowers that clung to the branch she'd broken from the lazy catalpa tree.

It is so easy to be lovely, in Emporia, on Sunday, in June.


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