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Teens

Rosie Baxter's legacy
By Melanie Kerr

Into a sleepy village
By fields of golden corn
Some families had moved into
New houses one spring morn.

The road of clean black tarmac
Did not yet have a name
The man behind the Council desk
Said, "We are not to blame…

"A nasty horrid virus
Has wiped our hard disc clean
The list of 'could-be-street-names'
Is nowhere to be seen."

"Let's hold a competition,"
The butcher boldly said
"Suggestions for the street name -
Invent our own instead."

"We need a man of honor
A hero straight and true
A name that will provoke us
And make us great men too!"

The posters soon appeared
All neon pink and bright
Stuck to every lamppost and
Every tree in sight!

A cardboard box was fashioned
A hole cut in the top
And placed upon the counter
In High Street's old Co-op.

Twice daily it was emptied
The letters piled up high,
The butcher volunteered
To read each one - Oh my!

"Beckham Close," wrote one man
"The footballer's sweet play
Will always be remembered
In this amazing way."

"We were robbed, as eggs are eggs
Of winning the World Cup
His name upon the new street sign
Will surely cheer him up."

"But Beckham's never been here,"
The butcher's wife complained
As on her dining table
The pile of letters rained.

The local schools with passion
Joined in this wondrous game
They practiced 'letter writing'
To win was not their aim!

"Sponge Bob Square Pants Terrace?"
In childish crayon scrawl.
The butcher scratched his eyebrow
"That will not do at all!"

"Oh, here's a good suggestion -
Columbas Close," he read
He smiled as he remembered
The man but ten years dead.

Sir Archibold, explorer,
Who spent his earthly life
Tramping through the jungle
With his devoted wife

He brought back souvenirs
Of tiny shrunken heads
That gave the children nightmares
While sleeping in their beds.

"Here's one for Isaac Avenue"
The Reverend Isaac Jones
Who rowed right up the Congo
To preach in hallowed tones.

To pygmies went his message
Those lost and heathen souls
Armed just with bows and arrows
They shot him full of holes

They put him in a cauldron
And made him into stew
A tough old bird was Isaac
He took some time to chew.

From sunrise in the morning
Till sunset late at night
The butcher read each letter
With no end yet in sight!

Stan Young, the famous runner,
Bill Haines who wrote those books.
There's always Ivor Watkins
With his handsome, film star looks

"Dad, why not Rosie Baxter?"
The butcher's boy declared.
She was their next door neighbor
A gentle soul who cared.

She welcomed friends and strangers
She had a ready smile
She made and auctioned doll's clothes
For causes most worthwhile.

She'd have a word in season
To lift a weary heart
To everyone both great and small
Such love she would impart.

Each Sunday she would be there
In church her voice would sing
And at the end of prayer times
Her loud "Amen" would ring.

This gentle lovely lady
Had walked upon the Way,
If only they could follow
Such love they could display!

The road was finally christened
"Rose Walk" in black and white
The blushing smile from Rosie
Was such a lovely sight!

Greatness doesn't need to come
With mighty awesome deeds
Just look around at folk nearby
And seek to serve their needs.

Melanie Kerr is a High School teacher. She lives with her husband, Joseph, in Inverness, in Scotland. She is very involved in her local church leading worship, preaching sometimes and organizing a ladies Bible study. She has been writing for a number of years, and a number of her articles and poems have been published in newsletters and books. You can write to Melanie through the Letters page of this magazine.
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