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There’s Nothing that Hot Chocolate and a Good Story Won't Cure
Mrs. Hallovich and I are on the front porch and I am calming down with a little help from the mug of hot chocolate in my hands, not to mention the sound of rain plopping on the roof and splashing on the leaves of the bushes around the porch. Mrs. H. has placed a small quilt over my lap, because I was shivering so much. I need to get my mind off of the playroom.
Can you tell me a story?” I ask.
“I have a million stories. What kind would you like?”
“Anything,” I say. “I like all stories.” I’m just hoping it won’t be scary.
“I think I have the perfect one, but, it’s a long one.”
“I have time,” I say.
“So you do,” she agrees. “All right then. I’ll start at the beginning, and we’ll see where we go.”
LEP’S STORY
There once was a young man who had spent the entire first sixteen years of his life behind the gray walls of an orphanage. After careful planning, and a moment of bravery, he escaped into the night.
He slept in barns by day and crept through alleyways at night, making his way as far from the orphanage as he could. After a few days of hunger and scrounging for food, he began to think he had made a terrible mistake. He was lost in dark thoughts, when fortune shone upon him. He came upon a band of gypsies.
‘Now that is the life,’ he thought to himself. ‘They travel, play music, dance, and sleep beneath the stars. What could be more perfect?’
This particular band of travelers were peddling pots filled with tree saplings, beautiful flowers from exotic places, and herbs and spices that had never been seen or tasted before by the local people.
He approached the caravan and asked to ride along. The gypsies, being generous and warm-hearted, agreed to let him join, on the condition that he work for his keep. The young man jumped at his chance and into a new life for himself.
Within a week, he could see he had a natural green thumb. Plants flourished under his care. His mentor, a man named Yorg, became a father figure. He joked that not only was the young man’s thumb green but his whole body must be so. He affectionately named him ‘the leprechaun’. This was how everyone began to address him, and Leprechan was eventually shortened to Lep.
The gypsies began to attract larger and larger crowds. People cheered as they pulled into each town, impatient to see what new vegetables and herbs would soon be growing in their gardens, and what new flowers would decorate their dooryards and tabletops.
Yorg and Lep shared instructions for the proper care of the plants, along with delicious recipes. They also taught the ways the plants could be used as medicines, making a great difference in the lives of the villagers.
The arrival of the gypsies became the most anticipated event of the year.
As the years passed, however, Lep began to dislike the constant travel. When he was 26 years old, unlike his gypsy family, he felt the need to put down roots. He wanted to start a family of his own. On their yearly pass through one of Lep’s favorite villages, he pulled Yorg aside and shared what he had been thinking.
“I understand,” Yorg said. He smiled and pulled Lep into a bear hug. “We’ll surely miss our leprechaun.”
Three days later, Lep stood amongst the townspeople in the road, and watched as the carts, holding the only family he had ever known, rolled across the bridge, over hills, and out of sight. Strapped to his back was a weeping willow tree sapling: a parting gift from Yorg.
“If it’s roots you’re needing, this tree grows them three times as large as the tree itself. It can also do our weeping for us,” Yorg had said. “We’ll miss your talents and your warm heart. You’ll always have a place among us.” As Yorg had walked away he turned and shouted. ”We’ll be back through in a year! We’ll see you then . . . Son.”
Lep had never felt more bereft in his life, but he had made his decision. He had some money in his pocket that he had managed to save over the years and, because he had been through this area several times before, he had an idea on where he wanted to settle. Within a few days he carried, in his pocket, a deed to his own land; a small spot close to a stream where his willow could grow and flourish.
He camped beneath his sapling at night. It was too small to offer any protection from the elements, but it gave him comfort. Though it was a long way off, he knew he had a great deal of work to do in order to have a real roof over his head before winter arrived. Because he’d spent most of his money on the land, he had no extra for tools or supplies. So, he rose early each morning and went about looking for work.
It didn’t take long for him to find a large number of people excited to have him help with their gardens. Lep worked from dawn to dusk, and word continued to spread about his talented green thumb. By September he had saved enough money to buy tools and lumber. Added to the stones on his own property, Lep was able to construct a one room living space for himself.
Over the course of his time in the village, he had become good friends with another young man, named William, who was apprenticing to become an apothecary. William had a great deal of respect for Lep’s knowledge of plants and put many of his medicinal recipes to good use. The recipes not only eased pain and discomfort, but some actually helped save lives.
Lep made it through the winter comfortably enough with the help of William’s family and other kind souls who provided him with occasional casseroles, fresh baked bread, and milk. By spring he was ready to get to work at gardening again, but with all the spare time he’d had over the winter, he’d been doing a lot of thinking. There was something else of great importance to him.
Lep wanted a wife. He was tired of being alone. He wanted someone with whom to share his life. The town had many young women, most were daughters, nieces, and sisters of those he had done work for. He began to inquire politely for introductions. He was not prepared for the response.
A dark cloud would pass over the faces of the townsfolk as he spoke of his intentions. They stopped hiring him. They made excuses: they wanted to do the work themselves, money was tight, they were developing allergies to his plants. He was, in a word, shunned.
Lep found himself at William’s doorstep one evening, looking for an honest answer as to why the community seemed to have turned on him so completely. He was warmly welcomed by William’s wife Harriet and seated across from his friend in front of a fire that was keeping the cold spring evening at bay.
William, knowing Lep deserved honesty, gave him his painful answer. “You, my friend, are good enough to dig in their dirt, but not good enough to marry their daughters. That’s their opinion, not my own.” William bent and picked up his own baby daughter who had lifted her arms to her father.
“But why?” asked Lep. “What have I done?”
“You’re a gypsy.”
“What’s wrong with gypsies? They were kind enough to take me in, and are among the most wonderful people I have ever met. Didn’t the town applaud our arrival each spring?” Lep was growing angry.
“They think only of themselves and what the gypsies bring to them. You are asking to take something.” He bounced his daughter gently on his knee. “Lep, if my daughter were of age, I would be proud to see her wed to you.”
Lep gazed at the tiny girl, in her father’s lap. Some of his anger left him. “You are a lucky man, William, with a beautiful family. I only wish for the same.”
William’s wife, who had been listening, laid her hand on Lep’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Lep. You deserve better, and you will find it.”
“What should I do?”
“Prove them wrong,” she said.
Her husband nodded in agreement.
Lep returned to his small house. He was nearly out of money and with no recourse, knew he had to move on. He crossed his yard to his weeping willow which now stood nearly 12 feet tall. It was still skinny, but its boughs had begun to droop into the beautiful shape it would become.
Lep considered his options. There weren’t many. He had been here nearly a year and knew the gypsies would be returning through this area soon. He hated to return to them feeling he’d failed, but they were his family. He needed their love and acceptance.
Within a week the caravan arrived. Once again the villagers lined the streets, watching as seven horse drawn carts, containing the annual bounty, came into view. As Yorg’s cart pulled even with him, Lep sprung onto the front seat beside his old friend and embraced him in a mighty hug. As they continued passing further into town, looking for a place to set up their camp, Lep shared his year’s experience and heartbreak. Yorg grew silent and called for the procession to halt. He hopped down from his seat and spoke to the driver of the cart behind him, that driver hopped down to speak to the driver of the next cart, and so on. All of this as the crowd waited expectantly for the side windows of the vehicles to open with the year’s new treasures. They wondered what exotic flowers had arrived? What new fruits? What new plants? What was taking so long?
Each of the drivers returned to his seat. The windows remained closed. The crowd was silent. The horses started forward. What seemed a parade before, seemed more like a funeral procession now. The caravan passed across the bridge, over the hills, and out of sight. The gypsies never returned.
But Lep did.
Mrs. Hallovich stops.
“Go on!” I say. For cryin’ out loud she can’t stop here.
“I’ll go on tomorrow. It will give us something fun to look forward to.”
“I’ll look forward to tomorrow no matter what,” I say.
“Will you now?” Mrs. H.’s eyebrows are raised at me.
What the heck did I just say?
She watches the wheels spin in my brain. She has just read my mind again. She laughs. “Oh, Ella! You are so precious!”
I laugh. Who would have thought I would find it so funny that she can read my mind. I laugh harder. She laughs harder.
What a day this has turned out to be.
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