A letter from one of my loyal readers made me decide to switch from an article on books (poem and all) to one whose title appears above. The "book" article will keep. In fact, the books will keep; but that warm, vital thing called "appreciation" must be passed readily from heart to heart, to keep it warm. This reader - one of my most inspiring friends - thanks me for a richly deserved compliment, and writes, "As one faces the western sun, so few travelers say beautiful things, even tho' the path has been strewn with them as far as the zenith. How wonderful it is that a loving Father has filled the world with beauty above and around the meandering way!" That paragraph set me to thinking - thinking that it is all wrong - this thing of holding out on those who face the western sun. The sunset of life would be like the sunset of a perfect day - a golden light that radiates, and illumines the whole sky. Those who are starting down the western slope need more than a cane, or a crutch, or a wheel chair - and a bottle of liver pills. They need soft silks and rich old lace and a fresh bouquet of flowers - the flowers of appreciation - every day. ****
Children don't need bouquets like that. They toss them aside, to run and play. They need seeds to plant - to grow their own flowers. Then they will know the joy of giving a "bouquet." Young people don't know what to do with gorgeous bouquets - except on very state occasions. They need quiet, sturdy plants and vines - a quiet word of approbation, and the thought that with each worthy deed they have added a new leaf - a new tendril - to the vine of their individual lives. Even the bride needs her romance-laden bouquet for only a brief hour; then it is tossed on to another. She may look for a verbal bouquet with every pan of biscuits or well-turned pancake. But if she is wise, she will start making her own garden, and not look for bouquets - even from her husband. If it comes, let each be taken as a delightful surprise.
But now, with older folks, that's different. They have been planting seeds and sharing cuttings and flowers all their lives. Choice bouquets are their just due. They have learned to appreciate the tender beauty of every blossom, the delicate fragrance of every chalice. Let us give our flowers of appreciation to those who are facing the western sun. If the bouquets are large enough, they soften the glare of the sun, which has a way of searching out in old folks all their past mistakes. Those on the western slope have given us so much; they have given us good seeds, and taught us the best forms of cultivation. They have helped us weed our gardens. If the person who has given us the most has passed on to the "greater glory," let us give her bouquet to some other needy soul. I like to think of appreciation in terms of a flower garden, don't you? For the more we cut our flowers, to give the passerby, the richer and more abundant become the new blooms. So it is with our lives. The more we give, the richer and more beautiful are the flowers of our soul. A life that has gone to seed is one that could not spare a flower. Let us give that word of encouragement to the struggling one. Let us give that word of approbation to the young student or workman. Let us give that word of appreciation to one who is trying to do his bit to make this a better world. Let us always send that full-blown orchid of gratitude to the one who gave us a packet of precious orchid seeds.
Every department story has its so-called complaint department, now wisely listed as the "department of adjustment." Years ago a high-minded Cleveland citizen suggested that we customers establish an "appreciation" department, giving a citation of merit to some clerk or other employee, or to the store itself, for outstanding courtesy and service. How much more constructive that attitude would be. The other morning, after a brief session at the dentist's, I decided to go to a nearby picture show - a daytime luxury that I allow myself about once every three years. For that insistent little fellow, "Jimmy Crickit," (known as conscience) keeps whispering, and nagging at me, "Your husband is working hard. Go thou and do likewise." But I stuffed my ears that day - for I had special reasons for wanting to see the picture shown there, "The Man Who Came to Dinner." (And, by the way, don't miss it - if you love Bette Davis the way I do. Monty Wooley plays his part superbly). The theatre is scheduled to open at 11:15. I arrived at 11:20 - to find the box-office still closed. A stern-faced woman was waiting - none too patiently; and when she saw me coming, she edged up closer to the closed window, so that she would be sure to be first. It was cold. Misery loves company; so she expressed her annoyance to me. But that was not enough. As soon as the magic window opened, she opened her guns, "YOU'RE LATE. Look what time it is." The ticket girl answered with a smile - of contempt. We went on inside. "What time does the show start? she barked at the girl usher. "11:40" was the mechanical reply. Well, she went up in the air over that. Another ten minutes wasted. And she marched like a martinet to her chosen seat. (I found a soft davenport under a lovely lamp, and wrote two postcards). For 25 cents we received 2-1/2 hours of the finest entertainment. I wondered if she of the belligerent attitude felt any softening and sense of appreciation, knowing that such a feast of information and entertainment was well worth waiting for. I doubt it. Her garden is all grown up with weeds - flowers gone to seed. In the wee garden of my heart, for this one thing I pray, I plead, Oh, Lord, whatever be my flowers, don't let them go too soon to seed.
In appreciation,
Florence B. Taylor
4501 Lilac Road
South Euclid, Ohio