Years ago when living in Williston, each Sunday afternoon I would take my guitar and help Mrs Rutland and her daughters teach Sunday School to the 'retarded' folks at Garden Park. This was the only group of people I ever played a guitar in front of, strumming simple songs in about the only three cords I knew. No matter. They thought me a Segovia. One particular person who took a particular liking to me was a lady named Katie. Katie was extremely affectionate and had no qualms about letting you know her affections.
For the Christmas party we held for them, Katie presented me with a book of neatly handwritten simple poems she had composed.
As she shyly handed me the poems, like a little girl she blushed and said "I love you Mr.Stokes!" "Now pluck that guitar for me!"
That was the last time I ever saw Katie. I often wonder what became of her, if she is still living, if she continues to write poetry. It is my continual search for this little book of poems, I trust has not been lost.
When I think of the long winter, and the coming hope for the spring thawing, the warmth of the memory of Katie helps break another ice crystal from the heart, as it flows on this tear stained cheek.
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