Here’s another one of Mom’s many stories.
I first met the old man when he was 70, but tales of his exploits had preceded our meeting. Early he had been afflicted with wanderlust, and he had made the grand tour. The world was his home. Eventually he met and married a tiny little lady. Some way that small body contained a nurse, an artist, a carpenter, and a gardener. Time passed and a son was born.
But there was a fly in the ointment: he believed in free sex “so long as no one gets hurt” and that liquor is one of life’s pleasurable necessities. She was so opposed to these two vices, which he refused to give up, that she divorced him. She didn’t believe in divorce, either, but chose it as the lesser of the two evils. Better no father than a rotten example. Mother and son moved out of his life.
When we met, he was living in a “shack” he had built: a comfortable four-room and bath building which in our area would have made a delightful summer cottage. He was short but broad, his debilitated body still giving evidence of the powerhouse of energy it had once been. His thick hair was turning gray and constantly tousled by his restless fingers. Work clothes and a 10-gallon hat were his garb. He was under a doctor’s care, having had a severe heart condition. He adhered strictly to his diet. Doctor’s word was law and order even to giving up his greatest solace: liquor.
The doctor had made it sound pretty simple: continue drinking and die soon. Kick the bottle and hang around a while. No choice. He didn’t like the thoughts of where he was going.
Some days he went fishing, but his fishing pals were beginning to drop off one by one. If he had a good catch, there wasn’t anyone left to give them to, and one old man could eat only a few.
He dreamed of dancing, but his heart couldn’t take the strain and, anyway, dancing calls for a partner. It was 10 years before I saw him again. His body looked sturdier than it was at our first meeting. His strict regime had paid off. His hair was only slightly grayer, slightly thinner. But sight was failing. There had been surgery on one eye and needed on the other.
He attended a small garden, walked to the grocery store, did a minimum of housework; dust laid like a pall over the whole “shack.” Fishing? Well, no. Old pals are all dead. New people in the area – not to be trusted. Rob you blind if you leave your shack. Driving? Well, no. License expired but will try to take exam soon. Hard thing with poor eyes. A visit back home? No. Doctor says heart can’t stand air trip. Could never make it by car. Have I seen your son? Oh, not for 10 years – just after I first met you. Yes, he must be about 40 by now. Still lives with his mother. You haven’t seen him since he was three? And he never writes? You don’t watch TV? You read whatever your eyes will stand? Yes, I see your encyclopedias look pretty well used. You’ve read the whole set cover to cover! No, I didn’t know you went to college in Paris. Is that better than here? No, just different. Father from home. No better.
The gnarled fingers tousled the already tousled hair. He lifted a small book from its shelf, turned it over and over. Spoke of its contents. “I’d like to give you this,” he said, “but someday my son may want it. Someday he may want my books, my shack, my little garden.”
The old man closed his eyes, spoke warily. “There’s not much an old man can do,” he said. “I read my encyclopedias and I cry. I cry a lot.”
Poor old man. Doesn’t like where he’s been. Is afraid of where he’s going.