This is the story of two men, one rich, one poor whose paths crossed once, but for a moment.
Marty Sawyer leaned on a fence post, his eyes meandering across the field before him. Marty was still sweating from his morning’s work of setting drainage pipe that would run to a new subdivision that was soon to be built. He was tired and dirty, but satisfied with his efforts and with the lunch he had just devoured. It was just about time to get back to his shovel.
The wildflowers growing in this field had caught his attention as he had worked and whenever he paused to straighten and stretch his back, he turned his gaze towards them. Pale blue chicory was growing in several clumps near one rock outcropping while the purple and white of dame’s rocket, said to be Marie Antoinette’s favorite flower, grew along the banks of a small run that trickled through this field, bubbling up from some unseen spring. The entire pasture itself was lush with the whispy white flowers of Queen Anne’s lace. The field had been allowed to go fallow as boundary stakes also sprouted among the grass and flowers. On the road the marked the far side of the field, he spotted a black limousine.
Inside the speeding limousine, Jeremy Wynston slid open the tinted door which separated him from his driver.
“Exciting day, O’Rourke! You know what were about to pick up?”
“If I remember correctly, the Rothschild Slipper Orchid.”
Mr. Wynston laughed an approving little laugh, pleased that his chauffeur had paid such careful attention.
“That’s right! The Rothschild Slipper Orchid, the rarest, most expensive orchid in the world. Had it flown in all the way from Malaysia, and now there will be one in my greenhouse. I’ll be the envy of every member of the American Orchid Society.” Mr. Wynston slid the door closed again.
O’Rourke made a left, but soon brought the limo to a halt at which time, the door slid open again.
“What’s the hold up, O’Rourke?”
“Construction, sir. It won’t be long though. What do they look like, anyway?”
“What does what look like?”
“Your new orchid, sir. What’s it look like?”
Mr. Wynston paused for a second. “Well, it kind of looks like a garden spider.”
“A garden spider?”
“Yeah, it’s striped and it’s kind of shaped like a spider. Trust me, for as expensive as the damned thing is, it’s beautiful.”
O’Rourke and the cars behind him were given the signal that they could now proceed and Mr. Wynston, took a mental inventory of the equipment that chugged up and down the shoulder of the road. He noticed Marty Sawyer standing leaning on the fence post.
“Look at that guy just staring at a bunch of weeds,” remarked Mr. Wynston who shook his head and closed the window partition once more.
This is the story of a rich man and a poor man. I’ll leave it to the reader to decide which was which.
The world would be a better place if we had more Marty Sawyer’s.
Indeed, Don! And may I say, Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.