Here is the story of Mildred La Rue. There was not much bold Mildred dreaded, it’s true- except beets..She disliked all beets in soup, raw in salad or hidden in stew. Mildred possibly disliked beets more than any of you. She disliked beets in tin, sack or jar, she refused to pass farms when she journeyed abroad in her car. “Beyond any bend may be beets I know”, so with compass and map she planned alternate ways to go..
. There’s a light in the window above Godfrey’s Luggage tonight, a warm glow. There’s a “come hither” look in the knot she has tied in the drapes, a neat bow. Mildred has lived long, Mildred’s lived with a song in her heart, kept poems as friends and beets out of her shopping cart. And how do I know her? Miss Mildred La Rue, and did she, Godfrey ever cross paths with you?
My long lost Vagabond Godfrey…No we never met, she told me over crumpets and tea. But like you, I to came here as a girl from the prairie. Was driving West, just oer the divide, stopped at a cafe, and sat down inside, enjoyed a fine breakfast of omelet with ham, and by chance found a poem. It was folded neatly, tucked hidden under those odd wee packets of jam, syrup, and honey. “The Lonely Rubbish” was the title, left by the Vagabond Godfrey. A ballad it was, a song of the open road he was on, and to Yorkton Saskatchewan at dawn
.He wrote of rubbish he saw being blown on a whirly -wind up the street, it sang of his lonely lifelong aversion to beets. So I snitched all the marmalade, paid the waitress cash, and stuck my found poem to the knob on my dash. Now live down the hallway from you, tell Godfrey thank you, from Mildred La Rue. Oh the tales that abound on the #50 Bus. There is poetry hidden in the least likely places, and may we find a bit of Godfrey deep inside us. She has tied her drapes oddly, in a neat bow, there is light always on in her window, a “come Hither” look, though I have never asked why, a warm glow. For she dislikes beets, this is all of Mildred I know.