I was rearranging furniture, making final touches on a display of striped taper candles, and generally fussing over the look of the shop. I’d been open for two weeks when he walked in — tall, slim, a little bent, tweed sport coat, plaid tie, waxed wooden cane. “The window display drew me in,” he said, “tell me about the rug”. “It’s from Turkey, a hand-knotted Kilim. The navy and maroon are traditional, vegetable dyes from the region.” “My wife would love this, he said, I’ll take it”. “All right, I said, it will take me a little while to remove it from the display. Would you like to come back for it?” “I’ll wait,” he said. So I offered him a chair. “Have you moved recently?” I asked. “Or just redecorating?” “Oh no, we’ve been here since we retired, 27 years ago”. And the tale began.

They met in their mid-thirties, he newly hired at The Library of Congress, she in her second year there. It was 1940. Their charge was to research and reference any requests called in by the secretarial pool that served the House of Representatives. It was serious work, an honor, but there was a lot of free time, and they got to know each other well. They were married in six months. After Pearl Harbor he went to work for the War Department, writing health manuals for servicemen. “That’s where I met Teddy," he said. “We were commissioned to write these manuals — he drew the pictures and I wrote the copy — to warn the enlisted men about malaria, and the dangers of opium, and other things… The trick was to grab them with something a little racy but to keep the language easy to read. A lot of those boys had never heard of Syphilis, that was our job”. “This sounds familiar, I said, is it possible that I’ve heard about this?” “Oh, you may have. Teddy got famous after the war. Started going by Dr. Seuss”. 

Mr. Rose became a frequent visitor. He would come in, pick out a lamp or a pillow, and take a seat while I dismantled a display and wrapped it up for him. I suggested early on that he just come by to chat, that he didn’t need to buy anything (perhaps not the best sales strategy), but each time he would say, “My wife will love this. She has such style. It’s hard for her to get out now, so I like to bring things home”. 

Over the months he told me about their life together, their story. They didn’t have children, spent their working lives in the Beltway, and their vacation time all over the world. They loved art, loved to travel. They met diplomats and heads of State, were invited to stay with a Sheikh. Throughout, there were artists sleeping on the couch, writers guesting with them until they could pay rent. The Roses helped get them published, celebrated their successes. It was a tale of love and two lives shared so very well. 

I woke up on Veteran’s Day thinking of Mr. Rose. He and his wife are gone, but their story lives on with me, as have the stories of so many others — people who have embedded on me. It’s the very best part about creating a place where people stroll in, feel welcome, stay awhile. And it’s the thing I miss the most. I hope they know that they are still with me, that I’m keeping their stories for them. That they live on. 

© Patricia Zanger