Eye of the Beholder

Once upon a cool evening, when the gentle breezes whisked away the heat of the day, and the cares of tomorrow lifted just as easily, William Trumbower rested outside with his beloved wife. In the privacy of their apartment balcony, Marjorie Trumbower leaned her head against her newly-wedded husband’s shoulder and smiled contentedly.

She was a city girl who traced her lineage back to the White family, who were pilgrims on the Mayflower. He, by contrast, was a man who had taken his Lord’s trade, and could not count himself many generations removed from German immigrants. She was relatively well-to-do. He had helped his family to scratch out a living on a farm.

The Trumbower farm numbered grains, vegetables, poultry, and dairy cattle among its produce. William especially enjoyed the cows. They had dignity and intelligence. They showed humility and obedience. They produced many good foods by virtue of the milk they gave. They were beautiful animals, in William’s estimation.

He believed, “Cows have the most beautiful eyes.” He commented this to one of his siblings.

He only did that once.

Marjorie’s childhood days consisted of attending schools for young ladies. The Great Depression barely touched her family. She learned her household management skills well, cultivated a love for Christ, and developed a talent for intricate whistling on the side.

Her vibrato whistling enabled her to mimic difficult operatic arias.

William left the Trumbower farm and his days of eating pies cut in no more than four pieces behind to apprentice himself to a cabinetmaker. He discovered that he loved working with his hands. It was fulfilling. He could miss the endless variety of labors on the farm, but he had found his calling.

Then the Second World War struck. Marjorie went to the munitions factories and worked as an inspector of shells and artillery. William went to the Pacific theatre as part of the Allied naval forces. They met for the first time at a U.S.O.-organized event while both acting as chaperones for their friends.

But once upon a cool evening, when the gentle breezes whisked away the heat of the day, the cares of yesterday’s war lifted just as easily. William Trumbower cradled his darling wife, tucking her shoulders in the crook of his arm, and turned his face from the sunset to admire her. Marjorie Trumbower raised her own face to return his gentle gaze. Her cheeks glowed in the golden rays of the sinking sun, and evening starlight already glanced from her lashes. With adoration, William tucked her head back on his shoulder.

“You know, you have the most beautiful eyes,” he said. “Just like a cow’s.”

Marjorie slowly stood, watching the sunset, then went to the doors that opened onto the balcony where they sat. She swung one wide, then paused with her back to the balcony.

“Bill, tonight you may sleep out here.”

The door slammed shut behind her.