The Raspberry Man

One lazy summer day in 1968, I ran away from home. I ran all the way across the street from my house to go and find out just what exactly was behind the mysterious old white house surrounded by tall pine trees. I stopped at the gate and stared. Directly behind the gate was a white wooden archway covered with hundreds of red and pink blooming roses. A narrow cement walkway wound around the enchanting house. In the center of the lawn and also covered with countless blooming roses was a gazebo. Inside it were two empty wooden chairs. In front of the gazebo, an unusual structure that looked like a miniature fairytale castle was sitting on top of a tall pedestal. There was a small round hole in each of the columns and towers in the castle. To the right of the gazebo, another white cottage-like house nearly identical to the one I was facing was hidden in the evergreens. An assortment of fruit trees and flowers, growing from fertile ground covered with soft field grass and laden with pine cones, created a peaceful atmosphere. With bold little fingers, I opened the gate and followed the irresistible narrow cement walkway around the house. Nestled in the back of this secret garden was a magnificent raspberry patch. Row upon row of bright red blossoming raspberries dotted the green leaves of the raspberry plants and lit up the raspberry patch like lights on a Christmas tree. “ ‘Vell, hello ‘dare, you sveet young ‘ting,” I heard a voice behind me say. I turned around to see a little old man holding a lighted smoking pipe in his hand. He had twinkling blue eyes, a cheery smile, wrinkly face, and an almost-bald head. “Do you like my raspberry patch?” The old man asked. “Yes. It’s very pretty,” I said. “ ‘Vell, ‘den, ‘ven ‘dare ripe, you may come eat until your face is red,” he laughed. “Really?” I asked. “ ‘Vhy shure! ‘Till ‘den, let’s go inside the house and eat a cinnamon roll and a glass of milk.” He gently took my hand. I could feel rough calluses likely caused by hard work on his warm hands. He led me through the wooden doors of his house. The house was dark and smelled of tobacco smoke, coffee, and raspberries. A large coal furnace heated the house which was furnished by antiques including a glass cupboard filled with a collection of odd items. “Sit down on ‘dis chair and I’ll fix you a roll.” I plopped down on the kitchen table chair while he prepared my treat. “ ‘Vell, little girl, ‘vat’s your name?” “Jan. What’s yours?” “Jan, ‘vat a charming name for such a sveet girl. My name is Hans Sorensen.” “Mr. Sorensen, what’s that thing that looks like a castle in your front yard?” I asked with my mouth full of cinnamon roll. “ ‘Dat ‘ting is a birdhouse. I built it to look just like a castle ‘dat’s in the far avay country that I used to live in called Denmark.” “You mean you made that all by yourself? Well, did you grow all those raspberries, trees, and flowers all by yourself, too? Everything is so beautiful and pretty!” Hans looked proud to receive a compliment from little girl. “Aw, it ‘vas notink.” “This cinnamon roll is delicious, did you make it? This is a cute little plate, too!” He laughed, and his eyes got a far-away misty look in them. “Ya know, I’ve alvays ‘vanted to have a little girl like you to take care of. ‘Vhy don’t you come over to see me again?” “O.K! I’d like that! Well, I better go now before my mom wonders where I am. Thanks for the cinnamon roll!” Hans took my hand again and led me to the flower garden. I watched him as he picked an assortment of flowers—among them his beautiful roses. He carefully cut off the thorns so they wouldn’t prick my fingers and arranged the flowers and roses into a splendorous bouquet and handed it to me. “Put these flowers in some ‘vater and please don’t forget to come see me again!”