When I first worked in Bentonville during the '70s, I often saw the old lady in her gypsy dresses and run-over tennis shoes as she moved along the tree-lined streets in the not-so-affluent part of the growing small town.
She walked casually, never hurried, with an aimless sort of almost-grace, like a wisp of dandelion fluff stirred by the wind.
One day, on my way to the new post office, I saw her stoop to pick up the dried remains of a dead blue jay from beside the broken concrete sidewalk.
Cradling the weightless carcass in her pale thin hands, she peered at it intently, as if looking into a mirror. She smoothed the lifeless feathers, speaking soft words I could not hear.
After a while, she placed the body of the blue jay in the fork of a tree limb nearby and drifted on to wherever she might have been going.
There was something fascinating about the old lady. She seemed to epitomize the essence of faded beauty, and there was a light, ethereal quality about her. She was almost ghostly.
One morning several weeks later I was in the computer room in the southeast corner of the old courthouse. I looked up from my work to see, much to my surprise, the slight lady standing in the doorway. Her eyes sweeping my office and the central computer room.
"Sir," she said, "have you seen my little boys? I was fixing our picnic lunch when they disappeared. I've looked everywhere."
I was almost speechless, but I finally replied. "Ma'am, I have not seen any children around here. I'm sorry, but maybe I can help you find them. I'll ask someone else."
I went into the next-door office of one of the elected officials who had been working at the courthouse for many years and asked him about the woman.
"Oh, her!" he said. "It's a sad story. A long time ago there was a small creek that flowed through this area. She was a young mother and had taken her two little boys, about 2-1/2 and 4 years old, down to the creek's edge where they were trying to catch crawdads.
"She stayed alongside them for awhile. They were hunkered down watching for minnows and crawdads, laughing and having a good time. She walked back from the creek to a grassy area, put down a picnic cloth, and was fixing crackers and peanut butter snacks.
"She glanced back to check on the boys several times, and they were still happily playing. Then, when she looked again, they were gone! She raced to the creek's edge. They were nowhere to be seen.
"She ran along the creek and into the water, screaming out their names. They were found several hours later, drowned. Apparently, the little boys had waded out into the water, even though she had told them not to do so, and stepped into a deep current in the center of the creek.
"The mother never recovered from the loss of her youngsters. It affected her mentally -- she blamed herself -- and she could not accept the fact they were gone. So she keeps searching for them."
After hearing that story, I did what the rest of the people in the courthouse had been doing for many years. In the kindest voice I could summon, I told the aged mother, "Ma'am, no one else has seen them, but I will watch for them. I'm sure they are just somewhere playing and having a good time."
These days we have the Crystal Bridges Art Museum near the courthouse, and the seeking lady passed on long ago, but I will never forget the image of the lady and the dead blue jay.
-- Louis Houston is a resident of Siloam Springs. His recent book, The Grape-Toned Studebaker, is available at Cafe on Broadway, Amazon.com and grapetoned.com. Send comments or questions to [email protected]. The opinions expressed are those of the author.
Editorial on 04/09/2014