Old Man

Author’s Photo: My great-great grandparents, Adam and Annie Moore

Old man, look at my life

Twenty-four and there’s so much more.

Neil Young, Old Man

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I miss people-watching.

Watching others as they go about their daily lives is far more riveting than anything you will ever get to see on Netflix. When I lived in the city, I could (and did) people-watch all the time. No one knows you in a city and no one ever looks back at you. Eye contact in a city is unheard of. People will go out of their way not to look back. It’s almost magical, how invisible you can become.

In the country, everyone makes eye contact, so people-watching would either be considered rude, weird or simply a precursor for them to say a friendly: “Hi there! Do I know you? Want to chat about the weather or maybe about my grandkids?”

I do love those friendly conversations in the country but I have nonetheless missed people-watching the way my husband misses the sun in the wintertime.

The other day, I was at a big store in a nearby town and because it was the last few days before Christmas, the place was packed with a lot of preoccupied folks who were far too busy searching for that perfect last-minute gift to even think about chatting with anyone about the weather. I had finished my shopping and had found a little corner to sit and wait for my husband to finish his own errands. It took me a few moments to even recognise the opportunity to people-watch: I have been carefully training that habit out of me since we moved back home. At some point, however, I felt that old magic as I became completely invisible; completely anonymous; in a crowd of busy, preoccupied people.

My eyes were soon drawn to an old man paying for his purchases just a few feet away. He was not buying presents. Instead, with some effort, he had just placed two big, heavy jugs of motor oil on the counter and he was carefully examining the receipt as he and the cashier discussed the price, which he had clearly not been expecting. I had swiftly made a few (perhaps incorrect) assumptions. One: he was not buying a present for his lady: perhaps she was no longer living? And two: he was clearly on a budget, as most retired seniors are. I understood that he intended to fix whatever needed fixing without the help of a mechanic, and I understood that for him, every penny counts.

I, too, am on a budget but I knew I would help him if he left those jugs of motor oil on the counter. I didn’t know how I was going to handle it gracefully though. In a rural area, a man who has nothing left still has his pride. How could I give him a hand without shaming him?

I quietly watched the internal battle play out on his aged face. It only took a few seconds, but I know it must have felt much longer to him. Finally, with a short, dignified nod, he indicated that he would be keeping his purchase, despite the price.

Just like that, he was on his way, carrying those heavy jugs and disappearing into the crowd. I watched his receding figure: despite his slightly stooping back, he was very tall and trim: I could see that he must once have been a very imposing man. His hips were doing that thing that seems to happen to all old people at some point: it’s as if all the bones are… letting go… spreading out…and trying to escape the skin that holds them together so they can be on their way to whatever realm awaits them next.

I notice older people a lot, these days. I know – without sadness or regret – that will be me in perhaps fifteen or twenty years. There is so much I do not miss about being younger. I do not miss the daily uncertainty. I do not miss figuring life out on a daily basis because well, when you first start out, you realise that you don’t seem to know anything.

But sometimes, life can be a struggle.

And sometimes, a person’s pride is all they have left.

Patti Moore Wilson/© wednesdayschildca.wordpress.com

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