Daisy
- 2 years ago
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A Daisy A Day free porn video
From the author:
This story is very loosely based on the song of the same name that has been sung by several prominent artists, but I believe the original (insofar as I’ve been able to determine) was first sang by the late and great Hank Snow, released by RCA Victor on an album titled Hello Love, and released in 1974. If you have any more or different information I would appreciate feedback.
The lyrics were copyrighted by their author Jud Strunk in 1973.
– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –
The Lyrics:
A Daisy A Day
They would walk down the street in the evening
And for years I would see them go by
And their love that was more than the clothes that they wore
Could be seen in the gleam in their eyes
As a kid they would take me for candy
And I’d love to go taggin’ along
We’d hold hands while we walked the corner
And the old man would sing her this song
CHORUS
I’ll give you a daisy a day dear
I’ll give you a daisy a day
I’ll love you until the rivers run still
And the four winds we know blow away
———————————————————
The Story:
Hearing no response to my knock, I opened the screen door, inserted my key in the lock, and pushed the front door open slightly.
Hearing no sound and observing no movement from within, I softly called, “Harley, You decent?”
Again no sound was heard except the morning breeze rustling the leaves on the Red Maple Tree shading the front lawn.
Stepping inside I looked around and saw him seated in his maroon red leather recliner, evidently asleep.
I was loath to wake the old man but it had to be, so I spoke in a louder tone, “Harley, wake up, it’s time for breakfast.”
Looking closer, it didn’t appear that he was breathing, so I moved over to his chair and put a finger under his nose to see if I could detect any breath. Not feeling any movement of air I checked for a pulse. His skin was much cooler then it should be and no pulse could be felt.
It seemed that Harley finally had his wish and his soul had left this mortal coil to join his late and much loved wife, Emma.
Sadly I picked up the phone to place a sorrowful call.
The call was answered on the second ring, “Hello?”
I replied, “it’s me I’m in Harley’s living room, and . .”
Before I could utter another word my wife in a trembling voice cut me off, “He’s dead isn’t he?”
In dull response I confirmed her query and told her to gather mother and Dan up to pay their last respects. I also asked her to tell Carol to watch the grand kids and I’d be over shortly so she could also say goodbye.
Hanging up I looked up a number in Harley’s address book and placed my next call.
To a hearty, “ hello,” I managed to mumble out, “Dr. John Robinson?”
He having assented, I continued on, “This is Luke O’Riley. I’m at Harley Swanson’s house. He doesn’t appear to be breathing, I can’t detect a pulse, and his body feels cooler then it ought to be.”
The good doctor informed me he was on his way and that he’d get the process started.
Placing the phone in it’s cradle, I turned at the sound of footsteps on the porch, to observe my wife, mother, and son making their entrance.
The four of us stood huddled about the mortal remains of the finest man any of us had the honor to know and love.
His eighty year old frame was bolt upright with bowed head, all 6’ 8” of him. Rail thin with his long white hair falling down his bowed and wrinkled forehead. His sky blue eyes were closed with his eyelids hidden by his old wireframe spectacles. His lips were curved in a smile as if he’d just heard a welcome and happy greeting. His long arms lay in his lap, fingers holding and old framed picture of Emma and him holding each other with their arms around each other’s waist in much younger and happier days.
On the glass which covered and protected the old and now fading photograph lay a freshly-cut, single, green stemmed, white petaled daisy, with it’s large golden yellow eye.
With tears streaming down her weathered cheeks, mom reached over to Harley and gently brushed his hair off of his forehead, completing her movement by softly stroking the back of his gnarled hand.
My wife, Grace, with tears also falling, reached to softly touch his other hand as each of the women whispered a soft tear choked farewell.
Quietly I left to walk next door and relieve Carol so she could say her final farewells.
That left me with the unenviable task of informing my grand children that “Great Gramps” had gone to a better place.
The rest of the morning was filled with answering questions to satisfy the medical examiner’s queries and watching her make the appropriate entries on the forms she needed to fill out and submit before the death certificate could be issued. She finally concluded that death was by natural causes and that Harley’s ticker had finally just given it up and he’d went to his maker as we all must do sooner or later.
I hurried out of Harley’s home when my task was finished as I didn’t wish to watch them carry him away.
The rest of the day was a somber affair. The grand kids clung first to their respective mother and father, then to Grace and me, and finally to mom as if they were afraid to let us go lest we suffer the same fate.
We all took turns just holding and comforting them that afternoon and evening until their young bodies finally betrayed them one by one and they fell asleep in our arms. Quietly we placed them in the beds that they slept in while visiting Grace and I. The parents followed shortly afterwards, and finally it was mom’s turn.
Grace had no wish to retire, preferring to stay up with me as I began a vigil that I knew would last the night. Holding me she struggled against her weariness and sorrow until her body and mind could take no more, and with a final hug and tear stained kiss she too made her way to bed with a final whispered request that I join her shortly.
Finally alone as the dying rays of the Summer sun faded and darkness gathered round me I began my lonely trek back through time . .
A restlessness soon caused me to rise from the leather sofa and move to the fireplace mantle. On the mantle were several framed photographs. The one that attracted my immediate attention was the largest of the lot. It was a photo of Harley and Emma Swanson, my mother, Ruth, and my father, Francis, “Frank,” O’Riley standing just outside the doors of Trinity Presbyterian Church on the 5th of July in 1937 just after their joint wedding. Both ladies were in their virginal white wedding gowns, veils pulled back, while their uncomfortable husbands stood alongside them squirming in their rented Summer white tuxedos. What a picture it was. Harley was 6’ 8”’ tall and towering over his bride who was almost 6’ 0” tall in her own right.
Emma was a total delight, tall and willowy, with her raven black hair and eyes so dark they almost matched her hair except for the golden flecks which almost gave her the appearance of someone or something not of this world.
Harley took after his scandinavian forebears with his long blond hair and sky blue eyes. The difference was his girth or rather lack of it. Emma would later tease him about his being the original model for Walt Disney’s Ichabod Crane in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.
On her other side stood my mother, Ruth, standing about 5’7” with her dishwater blond hair and brown eyes. Next to her was her husband, my father, Francis Xavier “Frank,” O’Riley. He was several inches taller then his bride and from the looks of him, one powerfully built Mick. His auburn reddish hair and piecing green eyes seemed to pull you to him.
Both ladies were of agreeable
proportion to their heights and very lovely indeed.
Retracing my footsteps to the sofa, I turned on the lamp sitting on the end table, seated myself, and pulled up one of the photo albums on the coffee table.
The first picture was of Emma, Harley, dad, and mom seated at a picnic table at the company picnic on the forth of July in 1936.
The two women had been classmates and best friends throughout school at Western HS and that friendship had carried on through the years. They’d been invited to the picnic by an old school chum, where they were introduced to Harley and dad. At the time the picture was taken, Emma was a 23 year old secretary and mom was a 23 year old bookkeeper.
The company was Western Foundry. The name was a misnomer. The company had been started as a foundry but was now much more. It had grown to be a complete metal fabrication company in its own right. They handled the whole process from the original designs, through the blue printing, pattern construction, molding, and final machining, and were now also into welding fabrication.
The US government had slowly started to modernize the military and in its first baby steps in that direction, Western Foundry had been the recipient of several fat government contracts.
Harley by virtue of his father’s skills and knowledge was a 28 year old job supervisor and dad also worked in the foundry. He was 23 years old, but Harley had seen something in dad and had started to teach him all of the skills needed to be the complete tool and die man.
Turning the page in the album I beheld mom and Emma holding me in their arms at the foundry picnic in July of 1938 with dad standing proudly next to mom and Harley standing next to dad with his arm on dad’s shoulder. I was three weeks old in that old fading photo.
There were many pictures of me as I grew from a baby into a crumb cruncher and entered my toddler years. Mom always said that I was a trial when I first learned to crawl. She spent most waking moments trying to corral me, and when I began to take my first toddling steps it only got worse.
According to mom a ritual had developed between Emma and Harley. Each day they would leave the house in the evening, Harley would pull his pen knife out of his watch pocket, cut a daisy from the hundreds growing along the sidewalk and around the porch as a border, and present it to Emma with a soft kiss. Then they’d walk up to the candy store and soda fountain on the corner, buy some fudge, chocolate, or in the Summer, ice cream cones, carry them across the street to the park, and sit and slowly devour them, all the while holding hands. It seemed that they were always holding hands.
During the week dad would ride to work with Harley in his brand new Ford sedan.
On Sundays all of us would walk across the street and cross through the park to attend church services at Trinity Church.
I can faintly remember the service on 7 December, 1941 because there was no service. The minister bade us all to return home to listen to a speech by President Roosevelt. It was then we all learned that the country was at war.
Dad’s Irish was up!
Turning the page, I beheld dad standing in front of the house in his Marine Corps Dress Blue Uniform following Boot Camp at MCRD in San Diego.
Dad had been so mad the morning after the announcement by the president, he got on a bus, rode down to the Marine recruiter, and joined up. Mom always said that one look at his face when he came home and she knew that any argument was useless.
I was standing next to dad in the photo, dressed in a smaller uniform just like dad’s, that mom and Emma had somehow cobbled together. Mama had her arm around dad’s waist with a proud, brave, but worried smile on her face.
Rising from the sofa I moved to the shadowbox next to the fireplace. Harley had built it out of teak wood. In the box was the tricornered flag presented to mom at dad’s memorial service, immediately under it his Corporal Chevron, a Purple Heart Medal with a bronze star, a Silver Star Medal, and an Expert Marksmanship Medal. At the bottom of the box, framed yellowing pages told the story: A Western Union Telegram informing us dad had been wounded in action, the citation announcing to the world that Cpl. Francis Xavier O’Riley had been awarded the Silver Star for his uncommon bravery in combat, and the final and most disturbing, the Western Union Telegram which struck fear in homes all across this great country: “The president regrets to inform you . . .”
Harley hadn’t wanted to put the two telegrams in the box, but mom insisted.
Shortly after the box went up, the white banner with the blue star, hanging in the front window was replaced by a gold fringed white banner with a gold star.
Mom tried to put on a brave front, but each evening after work Emma would come over and sit with her while Harley took me out to walk with him as he mowed the yards, or just to play catch with me, or talk. When we walked back into the kitchen, mom’s and Emma’s eyes would be swollen and there’d be several damp hankies on the table.
Mom had been worried about me and to try to distract me she got me a little black and white Rat Terrier from a neighbor whose female had just whelped. As soon as the puppies were weaned I got the pick of the litter. Mom discouraged me from naming it Bugs after my favorite cartoon character at the children’s matinee the Bijou showed every Saturday morning. I named it after my second favorite, Mickey.
There was the picture of Mickey peering at the camera while leaning out of the upside down straw hat I had to wear to keep the sun from burning my face, neck, and ears.
It was now necessary for mom to find work so Harley pulled some strings and Western Foundry hired her as a bookkeeper.
Each morning, during the week, mom would dress me for school, walk over to Harley’s and Emma’s home, drop me off with Emma, and head to work in Harley’s car. Emma would walk me the two blocks to school, behind the park, and pick me up when school let out.
At night, after supper, Harley’s and Emma’s ritual took a change: I’d walk over to their house each evening and after Harley presented Emma with her daisy, they’d take me by the hand and we’d all three hold hands and walk up to the candy shop together. If the weather was nice we’d sit in the park, but if not, we’d sit at a table in the shop. When Mickey got a little bigger he’d scramble after us. His antics seemed to keep Emma laughing and even brought a smile to Harley’s lips. I’d tie Mickey to a newspaper box while we were in the store, and keep him leashed when we crossed the street to the park. Harley taught me how to train him.
On our walks Harley would softly sing:
I’ll give you a daisy a day dear
I’ll give you a daisy a day
I’ll love you until the rivers run still
And the four winds we know blow away.
After the war ended, Western Foundry had to cut back. Mom was let go but quickly found a job at the large printshop across from the foundry, so she was still riding to work with him during the week.
The Korean War broke out and the foundry was again swamped with government contracts. When I turned sixteen Harley got me enrolled in a summertime apprentice program there. After graduation from Western HS I was lucky enough to land a full time job in the foundry so now Harley, mom, and I rode together.
Shortly after my twentieth birthday I went across the street to have lunch with mother, who blithely introduced me to a young woman by the name of Grace Canfield. We were married two years later.
Mom, Emma, and Harley watched Grace and I with bemused approving smiles as our relationship changed from casual dating, to friendship, courtship, and finally to a mutual love that has only deepened as the years went by.
The wedding picture shows us at the Altar Rail of Trinity Church. Grace looked l
ike and angel with her blond hair resting on her shoulder and framing her face. Her blue eyes and her soft lips were frozen in time with a smile that would make the gods weep in envy. She was fitted in a white wedding gown that accentuated every curve of her luscious body.
Standing next to her was the luckiest man in the world. We were both of the same height, 5’ 8.” I do have to admit her height and weight looked better on her then mine did on me. I’d inherited my dad’s green eyes and my mother’s dishwater blond hair. Where mom’s was beginning turn gray, mine was beginning to recede, even in my tender young years. I think I was the only one in the family to ever have to wear glasses and no it didn’t make me look distinguished.
Daniel was born a year later and Caroline was born almost exactly a year after that.
Emma and Harley had repeatedly urged mother to get out, date, and perhaps remarry, but she’d always insisted that she had no time for that as she had a child in need of a mother. Later she’d insist she had no time because she needed to help raise her grand children.
When Dan turned five mother began to develop heart problems and was now unable to work so after talking it over, Grace and I, along with our young brood, moved back in with mom to take care of her.
Harley’s and Emma’s evenings took another turn when first Dan then Carol began to walk with them to the candy store on their nightly stroll and yes the two lovers would sit in the park holding hands with a daisy in her lap. I swear that sitting on the porch in the Summer stillness I could hear him crooning that old song he’d made up for Emma.
The evening strolls ceased when Emma was diagnosed with a virulent and fast spreading cancer. She was rushed into St. Joes Hospital where she died in Harley’s arms.
Harley seemed to age overnight and began to shut himself away. Mom and Grace would have none of that. They made a point of going over to make sure the house was cleaned up twice a week and Harley was ordered to present himself at our table for breakfast and supper. On Sunday we’d pick Harley up and walk to Trinity for church services.
When Spring arrived and the daisy’s bloomed Harley seemed to come around. Each evening he’d cut a daisy and after going to the candy store he’d cross the street, walk through the cemetery gate behind the church, and climb the small knoll where he’d commune with Emma and deposit the daisy on her headstone. On his return he’d be humming his old refrain or talking as if he were carrying on a conversation with his beloved.
Grace’s footsteps on the stairway roused me from my reverie as I looked up from the photo album to note that daylight was breaking. All those thoughts and more had raced through my mind that night as I turned page after page in the albums, viewing the lives of so many people and events on display, with each picture drawing a visual painting in my mind of times long gone by.
Epilogue:
The funeral service was held at Trinity Church with the family and friends gathered round. Since there was no family of Harley’s or Emma’s for that matter, mom, Grace and I, Dan, Carol, and the grand kids filled that role and were seated in the front row. As the service droned, on my mind slipped back to remembering Harley cutting his present for Emma and walking to the candy store in his later life. Not with me. Not with Dan and Carol, but with their four children scampering around him like Mickey used to scamper after us. Each would take a turn holding his hands. After his purchase at the store he’d take them up to Emma’s grave and tell them wonderful stories of events and times past. They’d began to call him “Great Gramps,” which always seemed to bring a smile to his lips.
My daydreaming was broken up when I realized the service had ended. Carol took the children to the basement banquet room as the women all agreed that viewing Harley in his casket and later, the internment at the graveside alongside Emma was not suitable for them at their young age. She’d wait for our return for an hour of sharing and refreshments prepared by the various ladies groups. I followed mom to the casket with Grace’s hand tightly in mine. Her other hand was busy wiping the tears away.
Mom stood there looking at Harley for a moment, then leaned over to kiss his cheek. She stepped away so that Grace and I could take our last look at him. He was dressed in his Sunday go-to-meeting suit. He had the same smile on his lips we’d observed the morning of his taking leave of us. In his right hand were his spectacles. Both hands held the picture we’d found on his lap. On top of the picture was a single freshly cut, green stemmed, white petaled, daisy with its golden yellow eye watching us.
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