Yellow Roses
To everyone else, Sylvia Long may have been an outspoken political activist, a devoted Scientologist, and a woman proudly born on Flag Day. But to me, she was simply Mrs. Long—my friend, my fierce advocate, and one of those rare souls that leaves a gentle imprint on the heart.
Sylvia Long was our eighty-year-old next-door neighbor, and we loved her dearly—especially me. She had strong opinions, a quick wit, and a way of making even a child feel important. She was proud of many things, including the fact that she had been born on Flag Day, a detail she was happy to share whether or not anyone had asked.
When the 1960 movie Pollyanna premiered at the Egyptian Theatre in Boise, Idaho, Mrs. Long came to our front door and asked my mom if I might be allowed to accompany her. At the age of nine, receiving such an invitation from Mrs. Long felt like being chosen for something grand. It was my first trip to a theater, and I was beyond thrilled. Popcorn and orange soda only made the experience more magical.
Mrs. Long was an artist, and I can still picture the oil paintings that filled the walls of her little house in Boise’s East End. She loved yellow roses and tended a yard full of them, each bloom bright and carefully nurtured. In her living room hung a still life of yellow roses in a pale green vase, and to me it seemed to hold everything I admired about her: color, care, imagination, and a kind of quiet permanence.
French doors separated her kitchen from the living room, and she had painted delicate floral designs on each of the twenty-four glass panes. Even at my young age, I understood that visiting Mrs. Long was uniquely special. She always greeted me at the front door the same way: “Well, hello there, little lady.” Then she would speak with me as though every word I said mattered. She always treated me with kindness, dignity, and respect. How I loved her.
I’ll never forget the Saturday morning my grandpa arrived at her house to build a backyard storage shed for her garden tools, water hoses, wheelbarrow, and push lawnmower. I sat on my blue swing set in our backyard, deep in a pout, because Mom had already told me I could not go next door to visit Grandpa while he worked. From where I sat, I could see him and Mrs. Long talking and laughing, and it pained me not to be part of it.
So, I did what any imaginative child might do: I invented a romance. In my mind, the long-widowed Mrs. Long and my even longer-widowed grandpa were on the verge of a late-in-life love story. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. Several days later, all that stood in her backyard was a sturdy, practical storage shed.
Sylvia Long died shortly before I graduated from high school. After she was gone, the world seemed a little less vivid. I still remember her painted glass panes, her warm greeting at the front door, and those yellow roses—bright, tended, and unforgettable.
