A heartwarming look at life ...

Old People in the Park

One bright and crisp autumn afternoon, I was sitting in the park on a bench reading.  I overheard an elderly man nearby talking with his grandson who was seated on the bench next to him.

The boy was six, maybe seven years old, with the most incredible blond ringlets that framed what someday would be a very handsome face. He had huge blue eyes that looked adoringly up at his grandfather, as though searching his face for answers to his many questions, and they were holding hands.

When looking at any beautiful child, I can’t help but think of something my mother used to say, "With all of the beautiful children in the world, where do all the ugly adults come from?" I smiled. I could be wrong, but I don't think so.

The boy asked his grandfather why there were so many old people in the park every day. The old man was quiet, thoughtful, for a minute. Then I heard him clear his throat. He let go of the boy's hand and slowly stretched an arm around the boy's shoulders, pulling him closer to him. Then in unhurried and measured words, he told the boy they were just too alone at home to want to stay there. He said sometimes old people needed to be with other old people. There in the park, they could share their favorite jokes and maybe play a lazy game of bocce ball to pass the time together.

Then looking down at the pigeons gathering on the ground around the bench, the old man reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small brown paper bag. He handed it to his grandson. The boy thanked him thoughtfully, reached into the rumpled brown bag, and began tossing pieces of popcorn, one by one, to the pigeons, favoring a gray one with a limp.

As he did this, he asked the old man why they all called out names as they waved at each new person that came to the park. The grandfather told him that was a way of keeping their minds alive and well-oiled, after all, a mind is like a muscle and all muscles need to be exercised. Remembering everyone’s name was like a private game they all played, maybe it even helped them to ignore their many pains and problems.

The boy nodded his understanding and continued to feed the pigeons, taking his temporary job quite seriously. Then spotting a gray squirrel that had darted out from under the bench to steal a kernel of popcorn, he jumped up and stomped his small foot on the sidewalk. Of course this also frightened the pigeons who instantly took to the air and I had to smile. Then the boy sat back down beside the old man, obviously disappointed by the sudden turn in events.

The boy sat quietly for awhile as he watched the old people in the park. I followed where his eyes traveled. They stopped first on a couple of men playing a game of checkers on a stone table, and then on over to settle on a group of three elderly men in what seemed to be a heated exchange.

As he looked from one little group to the other, he asked the grandfather if the men playing checkers ever got tired of doing that. Did they just sit there every day doing the same thing for hours and hours? Then glancing at the men who seemed to be arguing, he asked what they were upset about.

The old man smiled lovingly at the boy. He cleared his throat again and in a slow, determined voice explained to his grandson that to some of the old folks, the daily checkers games were a way of making sense out of a changing world that they didn‘t feel a part of any more. In a way, it was like keeping them in touch with a world they did know -- and it got them out of their recliner chairs and away from their TV sets for a little while.

The old man went on to say that the three men who were in a heated discussion weren’t really arguing. Maybe to make the time fly they antagonized and criticized each other a bit, just to keep their juices flowing. Sometimes they even acted a little bit wise by bragging or griping about the good old days. You know, talking about old girlfriends and teasing the others about their old girlfriends. The boy giggled and wiped his nose with his sleeve.

By now, the pigeons had again begun to congregate at the boy‘s feet, tentatively at first, then with a little more fervor. It always amazed me how the feed-ees recognized so easily whose feet belonged to the specific feed-er.

The boy stuck his hand once again into the rumpled brown bag and brought out his next offering for the hungry rascals on the ground below. Both sat in silence, watching and grinning as the greedy winged goblins jockeyed into position for the next morsel dispensed from the small hand.

Then the boy turned his eyes up to look into his grandfather’s and asked him how long everyone stayed here in the park and how they knew when it was time to go.

The old man sighed. His eyes were still focused on the pigeons. At first, I thought he hadn’t heard the boy, and then I saw him lovingly pat the blond curls on the top of his head.

The grandfather told him they stayed till it started to get dark, or sometimes, it just got too cold to be there any longer. Then one by one, they waved goodbye, again calling each other by name just as they did every day when they first got there. Then they went home again and for many of them, back into the past.

The boy nodded, then smiled up at the old man, and both renewed their feeding ritual of the pigeons. After a little while, the boy asked his grandfather how he knew so much. The old man told him when you got to be his age … there were some things you … you just knew. With that, the boy looked up at his grandfather with a concerned look on his face and said, “Grampa, I love you. You’re NOT old. You’re … you’re … you’re like a shiny red apple. You’re ripe and … j u s t  right.”

The old man laughed out loud, and maybe it was the dwindling light, or maybe a trick of my eyes, but I could swear I saw the lines in his face smooth out. He looked a full ten years younger and I was surprised to find a tear on my cheek as I watched the old man swipe at his eyes when his laughter had finally subsided.

Slowly, the old man looked up into the sky. He told his grandson they should be getting along home now. As they rose to leave, the grandfather replaced the now empty, small, rumpled brown paper bag in his pocket. One by one, the others in the park raised an arm and called him by name, almost in unison,

“Bye, Gabe.”

He in turn did the same. “Bye, Herb, Sam, Max, Shorty, Charlie.”

“Hey, Gabe. We still on for checkers tomorrow at nine?” Called one man sitting next to the men playing checkers at the stone table.

“Sure, Sam. Lookin' forward to it,” was Gabe, the grandfather’s, response.

I was sure God would forgive his little white lie …and the last I saw of the little boy who was in the beginning of his life, and the wise and loving old man nearing the end of his, they were walking slowly back down the path through the park, hand in hand.

 

The End.