Old Man - short story

Those of you who want to slip in your ads in the comments to this blog are apparently unaware of the limited readership. I don't know how many people actually read Morialekafa but it can't be very many. You should focus your attention elsewhere.

Chest of chicken anyone? I don't know if you saw it but some radio station in Kentucky canceled three programs, two of which used the word "breast" and one that used the phrase "get high." One of these programs was Garrison Keilor's, a felonious fellow if ever there was one. Apparently so many fans complained that they cancelled the cancellations. What is it with people and breasts? You often see complaints about breast feeding in public. I guess Americans are ignorant of the natural functions of breasts and think they are just for erotic play? Would it be better to say "boobs feeding," or "hooters grub," or something?

Anyway, as not much else seems to happen, especially on week-ends, here is another short story.

He was one of the first persons I noticed in our newly found little town. Every morning at the same time you could see him making his way slowly across the bridge. The bridge is about a quarter of a mile long and crosses the beautiful river that separates the North Side of town from the South Side. It slopes gently from north to south and in winter can be a rather difficult journey in either direction. The Old Man lived on the north side, the oldest part of town, built on the North Hill for protection from the annual floods that occurred before the dam was built. The houses were old, most of them even older than the Old Man. As there were no stores on the north side, the Old Man journeyed each morning from his home, across the bridge, to the small Safeway store that did its best to provision us. He bought very little, only what was needed for that day, and carried it slowly home back up the bridge.
It was difficult to tell in years just how old the Old Man was. But everything about him said old. His bent over posture, the slowness with which he moved, the lined, carelessly shaved face, the rheumy eyes, the intense concentration on where he was walking, the large, gnarled arthritic fingers, his worn clothing, and the wisps of unruly white hair that peeked out from under the old hat he wore faithfully each day.
The Old Man rarely spoke. He had a pleasant voice but was invariably brusque, as if he didn’t wish to be bothered. Everyone knew him, but at the same time no one knew him. He was just a nameless Old Man. One of the clerks claimed his name was John but no one knew for certain and no one ever addressed him by that name. Ordinarily people did not address him at all. He just appeared, made his modest purchases, always in cash, and left. Everyone agreed he had lived there for a long time but no one seemed to know for how long. Being a newcomer, and given that it was a fairly small town, I thought this was strange indeed. But no one else seemed to be concerned about it. He was always alone and apparently had no friends. I concluded that whatever friends he may have had most probably were dead. I refrained from wishing him Merry Christmas, fearful he might think I was mocking him.
During our second winter the Old Man began walking with a cane. It wasn’t really a cane, more like a walking stick with a sharp point. He walked more slowly using his stick to help navigate the occasional snow and ice. I watched him struggle daily and came to admire his tenacity and obvious unwillingness to give up. He fought grimly each day to continue his life.

Ours is a beautiful town, built in a gorgeous river valley with fine soil and a genuine four-season climate. In summer, from the top of the north side of the bridge, looking eastward, the river runs through neatly cultivated fields of golden wheat, bright yellow canola, sometimes oats and barely, and less frequently stands of rape, alfalfa, or peas, crops to be plowed under to enrich again the soil that has sustained the townspeople for almost two hundred years. To the west the river winds its way towards a magnificent and untamed mountain range, but then turns northward towards mountains even more spectacular. The views in all directions are breathtaking, what with the blue of the sky, the myriad shades of green from the surrounding mountains, and the often-present drifting white clouds. In winter, with snow on the ground and covering the almost infinite expanse of evergreens, it is equally as beautiful. Watching the Old Man I wondered if he still appreciated this overwhelming natural panorama. He must have perceived the obvious grandeur at one time but now, moving so awkwardly and with such concentration, I thought perhaps it no longer existed for him. How terrible it must be to no longer appreciate beauty. It would be like having music suddenly turn into noise.

During the following summer the walking stick changed into a genuine cane, a grotesque piece of highly polished hardwood every bit as gnarled as the Old Man himself. The winter had been long and cold. Now the summer was hot, over ninety degrees for days on end. None of this kept the Old Man from his morning routine. I couldn’t help but notice he often purchased just a single can of soup, along with an apple, pear, or orange and, when needed, a loaf of bread and some butter. I don’t believe it was entirely frugality, I think he simply didn’t need anything else. Food, like beauty, no longer mattered. His goal had become mere survival.
Once the Old Man did not show up for two days and when he reappeared he was using crutches that slowed him down more than ever. But he kept going, carrying his one plastic bag of groceries clamped to one of his crutches as best he could. He never gave up. Day after day he stubbornly made his increasingly awkward journey. He never complained, never asked for help and even more rarely spoke. He was engaged in a struggle that only he completely understood and appreciated. Other people might as well have not have existed. The Old Man was a lonely figure, wandering on an increasingly strange and difficult quest, the ultimate outcome of which was never in doubt.

Fall was late in coming. We enjoyed a long and marvelous Indian summer. The haying was done and the bales spread out neatly across the fields produced an intense feeling of peaceful satisfaction. The harvest was over. Nature had been unusually bountiful. The fruit trees, heavy with fruit, had been stripped of their treasures. The potatoes and onions and carrots, parsnips and turnips were dug and stored. Firewood was cut and split and protected from the weather to come.
Inevitably the weather changed, cold winds arrived and put the trees in motion, the larch began to turn burnt orange, slowly dropping needles that piled up into delightful little mounds of color, and the leaves on the birch and aspen rustled noisily and began to fall, creating a scene of such mixed colors it might have been an impressionist painting. Huge flocks of geese flew south honking in their familiar formations, pausing in the afternoons to feed in the stubble and rest for their long winter journey.
When the Old Man did not appear for three days one of the grocery clerks casually mentioned it to the policeman who came to buy food for the inmates in the county jail. The following day when the Old Man still did not appear a policeman was sent to investigate. Of course the Old Man was dead, having apparently died peacefully in his sleep. The small house had been neglected for years. The picket fence was falling apart, the paint was peeling, and what had been at one time a lawn was now a mass of weeds. The only remnant of a garden was a badly overgrown clump of yellow Iris. The windows were dirty and covered with cobwebs. On the kitchen table was a half-full bottle of Echo Springs whiskey. In the small second bedroom there was a collection of similar but empty bottles collected over what must have been a very long time. In the kitchen sink was an unwashed pan with a trace of vegetable soup. Under the Old Man’s pillow was a fully loaded silver plated 6.35 Mauser automatic with teak handles. In the single drawer of the night-stand was a loaded .38 revolver of a type some used to call a “muley,” although I have no idea why. Under the mattress was an envelope with eleven one hundred dollar bills. On the walls were calendars many years out of date, mostly featuring buxom young ladies either scantily dressed or posed in awkward situations. There was no sign of correspondence except for a large number of social security envelopes in a waste-basket. In the small dining area was a very old and quite handsome mahogany china cabinet. Inside were wine glasses and a complete dinner service for eight. A fading sepia toned photograph showed what must have been the newly married couple, the Old Man quite handsome and well dressed, his bride a beautiful woman with long luxurious auburn hair. In one of the drawers was a woman’s gold locket mounted on a necklace of intricately woven auburn hair. In a matching drawer was a full set of tarnished silver. In the master bedroom, dirty clothes.

How appropriate, I thought, when the Great Mystery calls, to leave in autumn.