Strong Colors Blend

BLACK JACK

 

He's big, brawny and gleaming black. His skin shines. I picture him as a lumber jack, chopping away, heaving a hatchet over and over as a giant fir falls to earth The ground shakes and Jack's whole body quivers. He sighs with regret, moves aside, guides workers to get the chains around it. 'Up, Up, he shouts. Mournfully he moves on to the next tree and tries to remove his visions of the sawing, the houses that will be born, the furniture that will be built to fill the houses. But my conception of Jack is way off base.

 

As fall nears, I am aware his step down the street to the bus stop is faster, his whistle sharp and happy. And why not? He is the Manager of the Balfour Arborarium and more than that. It is bulb planting time and he just loves dirtying his clothes, his hands. Jack plans during the summer what will bring thousands of Marylanders to see his tulips, the beautiful cherry trees exposing their pink and white faces as they greet the visitors.

 

Fall fades too fast. I don't see Jack out walking when a December snow storm paralyzes the city. In fact, I don't see anyone during the temporary burial of Baltimore. The nice overly-weight day worker my wife and I have on Mondays and Fridays is holed up in her own apartment, doing for herself what she does for us, vacuums, washes clothes, changes the bed clothes and naps a lot.

 

March arrives a bit to nippy for the tulips to draw their usual throng of visitors. Reisterstown Road is a major traffic problem. It's crooked, narrow, has only one lane each way and tries to service the  heavily traveled town as best it can. The mushy snow turns it into Hell's kitchen.

 

 

 

 

 

Black Jack is worried about the spring garden showing. There is a large picture of him in the Sunday paper as he covers his delicate babies with strong plastic sheets and sits in the cold to watch their growth. At last a whiff of spring time appears and Black Jack disappears.

 

The Sunday News shocks our community. Black Jack is ill, very  ill. The grand opening of the gardens will be delayed as the community waits for him to preside. Friday headlines are larger than usual. They are decorated with flowers of all kinds, His picture is on the front page. His obituary notice takes the place of the next meeting of some kind of hinky dincky political club. A notice explains the Board has voted to allow only one grave to be built in the park and that will be a memory to Black Jack. It will eventually have a black wrought iron fence around it and a 'thank you plaque' will be displayed on a concrete pole.

 

Blakc Jack's last request is honored. He did not want a wooden casket. Jokingly he remarked to the custodian while he was able–'I don't want another tree destroyed for me. Make mine casket out of metal or plastic.' And so it came about, Jack got the love, the honor he deserved.

 

My family and I visit him every spring along with those in wheel chairs, using canes, riding bikes, pushing baby carriages. He was a 'Man of Color' with black skin, white teeth, blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a heart of gold. He is already missed, I watch the tulips sprout. This spring they rise as one large American Flag, red and white stripes. A field of  white poppy stars work their way thru a field of blue  geraniums.

 

Our beloved Black Jack loved us and the America that gave him hope.
It was a good exchange.