Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

March 18, 2007

LEO’S WORLD

By Ron Gold

            Leo Small became a legend in our town.

Ask the slightly balding Parks Department worker what he did and he’d

smile and call himself a ”diamond cutter”.

The statement was literally correct.  Leo pushed the lawnmowers that

tidied the baseball diamonds.  He would also chalk foul lines, cut and mark

football gridirons and rake our running tracks.

            But cutting, chalking and raking was only part of his responsibilities.  He

also planted and pruned trees and grew and transplanted flowers.  But the job he

cherished above all was printing panels with the names of local youngsters who

entered military service. 

            Leo, who worked neatly, had a great sense of space.  After all  “Joe Jones”

and “Carmine Santodominguez” had to fit the same size panels on our civic

honor roll.  Leo made all names readable.

            Leo received the names of new inductees the same day the draft board

and military recruiters approved them.  And these names were lettered and

tacked into position quickly and with the utmost care. 

            And, sadly, the same day the War Department released its Killed In

Action lists, Leo went to the honor roll and painted a gold star on the dead

Service person’s panel.  Each hand-painted star seemed identical in its size and

brightness.

Our downtown honor roll was quietly beautiful—and the flowers, like the

panels, were meticulously maintained

Leo, who moved down to Connecticut from Maine in the late 1930’s,

seemed to keep his job forever: World War II, the Korean Conflict, Viet Nam,

various incursions and holding and policing actions and, just before he retired,

the Gulf War.  It was more than a job.  It was Leo’s obsession; Leo’s world.

            While Leo cut the grass and tended the flora dispassionately, the Honor

Roll stirred him.  He’d call the parents of each new recruit and tell them “not to

worry.  God is on our side.  And I will pray for your kid’s safe return.”  (To Leo,

these young men and women were “kids”, his kids.  He watched them grow and

saw many of them compete in team sports on his grass and cinders.  And he

watched them graduate, head off to college and work in our hometown.)

And on those days he had to paint gold stars, he’d make compassionate

house calls to share their family’s grief.  He brought the ceremonial gold star

flags their widows and parents displayed on their front door or in their front

window.  Each badge of honor was moist with Leo’s own tears.

He also brought a white rose from a city greenhouse, a well-meaning,

thoughtful gesture that would eventually threaten his job security.

When Judson McComb, the Parks Commissioner, heard that some roses

were missing, he discovered Leo was the culprit.

They confronted each other in a closed-door meeting in McComb’s

office

The pot-bellied Commissioner and the wiry, suntanned diamond

cutter rarely made eye-contact.  Leo stared up at his boss’s forehead and

McComb stared down at his desk pens.

“Who do you think you are?  Robin Hood?” McComb asked.

“Who are you, Sir?”, Leo said politely, “the evil sheriff of Nottingham?”

McComb’s bloated face reddened.  “These roses are city property; part of

our departmental budget.  You can’t steal them. We can’t give a rose to every

family who loses a son or a husband in this war,” McComb said.

            Leo responded: “We’re civil servants, aren’t we?”

            McComb nodded yes.

            “Well, what’s more civil than giving one white rose to someone who’s

given a son to protect us?  If you and the mayor would visit these homes with

me, you might change your minds.  After all, I present the rose from ‘your parks

department,’ not from Leo Small.”

“OK, I see, Leo,” the commissioner whispered.

“You can call me Mister Small,” Leo said with a grin, extending his hand.

The commissioner shook Leo’s hand and smiled.  And the subject was

never again discussed.

            Leo continued his daily routine: cutting grass, planting flowers, pruning

trees, chalking and raking athletic fields and updating the honor roll.

            The “boys” at Moon’s Tavern had the same daily question: what’s

new, Leo? 

            Leo would say “Danny Gardella just joined the Navy.  Remember

what a great fullback he was? – All state last year.” 

And the boys would order another round of beers and talk high school

football.

            Or Leo would say, “Mary Ann McKenzie just joined the Woman

Marines.” 

And one fellow guzzler would say, “I can’t picture a pretty girl like Mary

Ann hiding those good looks in a uniform.”  And the “boys” would toast

younger women--and then toast the Marine Corps for another round or two.

            After work one day, Leo was despondent.  He told his drinking buddies

that Carl Paine was killed in the Battle of the Bulge. 

“Where’s that?” Red Franklin asked. 

“In Belgium, you nit-wit” Moon said.  And the “boys” toasted Carl’s

memory somberly, reverently and often.

            “I’ll be visiting the Paine home tonight.  Anybody care to join me?”

            Throats cleared--then silence.

Though Leo Small never married, he had thousands of kids, most of who

returned home from their battle-stations.

            When he finally retired, Leo was asked to run for Mayor.  And, with his

personal following, he probably would have won.  But Leo declined.  He had

enough of politics just dealing with the Parks Commissioner.

While savoring his retirement, Leo still spent a lot of time at the

department’s greenhouses.  And he volunteered to update the reverence roll like

only he could: neatly and with great love, talent and affection.  And he’d also cut

a white rose when he lost a kid.

            When our hometown paper interviewed him, Leo was asked why he still

tended the civic honor roll.

            “It keeps me in touch my kids. I know them by name—all of them.”

Ron Gold 

outthinkresumes@aol.com