The Legend of Blue Willow

Tea With Rose

A story for the whole family, by Erin Sankey

“Hey, Mama, may I ask you something?” sixteen-year-old Blake said, sitting down.

“Yes, baby, what is it?” his mom asked as she washed dishes.

“Every Wednesday when I walk home from school, I see this old lady sitting at a table drinking tea and eating cake over at the factory.”

“And?” his mom asked.

“Well, I don't know. She just looks so lonely.”

Blake's mom wiped her hands on her apron and sat at the kitchen table with him. “Does she look lost?”

Blake thought for a moment. “Nope. As a matter of fact, she looks like a tough old bird.”

“Good for her,” Blake's mom said thoughtfully. “You should go and talk to her,” she said, cracking a smile. “What's the worst that can happen? She tells you to go away. Be confident, introduce yourself, tell her your name and what school you go to. You just might be surprised.”

Blake sat back in the chair. He nodded. “Yeah, I guess I could do that.”

Wednesday:

Blake took a deep breath as he started his walk home. The knots in his stomach tightened as he approached the factory. As he stopped at the fence and looked at the old lady, his palms began to sweat.

The old lady was in the factory yard, drinking hot tea, smoking a cigarillo, eating cake and reading the paper, just like she always did every Wednesday.

Blake followed the fence up to the gate and walked in. His heart was racing. He waited for guard dogs to run up on him or a security guard to chase him off, but none of that came as he approached the old woman.

“Hi, ma'am. My name is Blake, Blake Rutherford,” he said in a shaky voice. “I go to Washington High just down the street here.” The old lady put down the paper and looked at him. “What can I do for you, son?” she asked warmly.

“I thought I could offer you some company. You look lonely out here all by yourself.”

The old lady pointed to another chair. “Pull up that chair over there, sit your keister down, and have some tea,” she said happily, pouring him a steamy cup of tea. “The name’s Rose, Rose Munger. Would ‘ja like some cake?” she asked.

All his fears went away, his sweaty palms dried up and his heart stopped racing as he took his seat. “Um, yes ma'am, that sounds nice,” Blake said picking up the cup and blowing on the tea. She pulled a plate of goodies from out a basket and placed it in front of him. “Here, take as many as you’d like.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he said, taking a crumpet.

“So, I look lonely to you, huh?” Rose asked, taking a drag of her cigarillo.

“I see you out here all alone every Wednesday I walk home. I just felt like I could give you some company,” he said taking another sip of tea. “By the way, this tea is delicious. What kind is it?”

Rose took a sip. “Rum tea. It’s imported from the Cayman Islands. I have some rum cake in the basket. Would you like a piece?” she asked reaching for it.

Blake smiled. “Yes, ma'am, thank you. I would very much like that.” Blake picked up the teacup and sniffed it. “Rum tea, huh. It's got a nice bite to it.” He took another sip.

Rose passed him a piece of cake. He took the piece and put it on the plate in front of him.

“My late husband was a tea connoisseur,” she said. “I never thought I’d be a tea drinker to be honest with you. But when you've lived a life like I have, anything’s possible.”

“Ma'am?” Blake asked.

“Cut this ‘ma'am’ nonsense out. Call me Rose,” she said, taking another drag of her cigarillo.

“Rose,” he said.

“That's better,” she said, shifting in her seat. “I was born on August 5th, 1915, to Grace and Robert Whitman. I was the youngest of seven children. My mother was so ecstatic that she finally had a girl. She named me Rose, Rose Whitman. Little did she know what a spirited little girl I’d grow up to be. She was able to dress me up like a little girl until I was about five-years-old. That is when my true spirited self came to light. I’d run around with the boys, playing stick-ball and catch frogs down by the Chicago River,” she began. She took another sip of her tea. “I've lived in Chicago my whole life. When I was ten, back in 1925, Al Capone ruled the streets. The booze flowed like an underground river in the speakeasies. I got to see flapper girls dancing on stage and hear good bands playing.”

Blake furrowed his brow. “How did you get to see all of that?”

Rose smiled while throwing her head back and taking another drag of her cigarillo. “I guess you could say that the first thirty years of my life were my very own adventure moving picture.”

Blake leaned back in his chair.

Rose looked him in the eyes. “Al Capone himself recruited me as a gun-runner,” she said.

“Gun-runner?” Blake said.

“Oh, honey, how do you think Capone got away with everything he did?”

“I have no idea,” Blake said, slightly shaking his head.

She took a sip of tea to wet her throat. “He used kids. He had a slew of children on his payroll. Each one of them had a different job and no one was ever the wiser. I just happen to be one of the best gun-runners around. In laymen's terms, I'd take Tommy guns and hide them under a tarp in my wagon, then I’d load them on the back of my bike, and ship them from building to building. I'd deliver them to the guys safely in the gangway and alleyways of, Chicago. So, if Capone’s men were ever pulled over by the cops, they didn't ever have anything on them. Capone paid me ten dollars a week to do this. That was a lot of money back then.”

“Weren't you afraid you'd ever get caught?” he asked.

She took a drag of her cigarillo and a sip of her tea. “Even if I did get caught, what were they going to do to a ten-year-old?” she said, narrowing her eyes. A moment of silence went by. Rose laughed to lighten the mood. “Besides, at ten years old you don't think of the consequences, you just do. And at ten dollars a week, you felt like you were on top of the world.”

“I hear you,” Blake said, taking a bite of his cake.

She took a bite of cake and swallowed it before she began talking again. “I'll never forget,” Rose said, ashing her cigarillo. “Frank Nitty himself once taught me how to shoot a Tommy gun.”

“Whoa! Really!” Blake said, raising his eyebrows.

Fairy Tea-Party

by Laura E. Richards I went to take tea with the three little fairies Who live in the depth of the hazel wood. And what do you think we had for supper? Oh! everything dainty and everything good.

There was tea in a buttercup, cream in a blue-bell, Marigold butter and hollyhock cheese, Slices of strawberry served in a nutshell, And honey just brought by the liveried bees. We sat 'neath the shade of a silvery mushroom, All lined with pale pink, nicely fluted and quilled, And around us the cup-moss held up its red goblets, Each one with a dew drop like diamond filled.

We ate and we drank and we chatted together, Till the fireflies lighted us off to our beds; And we all fell asleep in our cots made of rose leaves, With pillows of thistledown under our heads.