Roses Are Red. . .

“You’re wrong,” one of the older men in my church said to me. And then he added, “You don’t know what you’re talking about either,” just in case he’d left any room for doubt with his first statement. I’d been attending this particular congregation for over 4 years when this occurred, yet this was our first conversation. He’s a tall man in his 80’s and I’ll call him Johnson. I see him from time to time driving around town but on Sundays he wears a brown suit along with coke bottle glasses trapped in oversized squarish frames. His shoes appear large for his frame and are slightly squared off at the ends reminding me of two loaves of bread.

We haven’t spoken since. He kind of scares me.

This past Sunday, though Johnson’s wife arrived late and sat in front of us. I wondered if maybe he was sick until a few minutes later he arrived. Even before he sat down I could smell him. This was not the smell of strong body odor nor the distinct scent of cologne rather it was the unmistakable smell of rose scented perfume, which is the kind I remember my grandma wearing only not so heavily. My daughter Margaret sitting at the far end of the pew leaned forward asking, “What’s that smell?” I pointed in front of me and she mimed, “Johnson’s wife?” then giggled when I clarified.

I’m not exactly sure what happened Sunday morning but like to think Johnson decided to brighten his grouchy personality with a bit of roses and spice and everything nice.