The Old Man slowly shuffled down the steps of his porch, his shoes sketching jagged parallel lines in the growing whiteness. Aged hands tried to maintain their hold on the railing. His mind raced with terror—his fists clasping and un-clasping with the fear of another fall. Reaching the bottom, the Old Man paused to gather his bearing. Left or right, today? He asked aloud to himself. Absent of an audible reply, the Old Man turned to his left and began to head in the direction that he, inevitably, chose each morning. A gray wool coat insured warmth, as did the well worn leather gloves that his wife had bought him years ago. She was dead, now, long since departed but for within his memory. The Old Man’s cane took the side that his wife once held, his right hand grasped at the finely crafted wood piece that shook with a slight tremor. He had affixed a rubber stopper to the bottom, repeatedly over the years, in an attempt to guarantee stability. For winter, the Old Man crafted a special stopper, complete with a screw to pierce the frozen sidewalk. He missed his wife as constant as his lungs craved the air.
Rory watched from his bedroom window, and swore that the snow fell at a quicker rate than the Old Man’s feet could shuffle. Why does he always go left? He wondered. In truth, Rory had noticed much more about the Old Man. For instance, he appeared to always dress in the same attire for his walks; which, coincidentally happened to be one of the few times that Rory ever saw the Old Man outside. Same gray overcoat, gloves, leather boots and corduroy pants. Occasionally, the Old Man would carry an umbrella or wear a hat if it happened to be raining. The cane, a constant companion at his side. Now that Rory had thought it through, the Old Man likely walked every day.
Rory was twelve years old, and his own grandfather had passed away a few years prior. Rory had always wondered why he rarely saw anyone visit the Old Man—he used to always visit his grandfather. Those that did seemed to have car plates from Illinois (very far away), so it made sense that their comings and goings were sporadic and only once or twice a year. Rory never saw young children visiting, only a man and woman that appeared to be the same age as his own parents; probably the Old Man’s son or daughter. He was sad for his neighbor. Surely the Old Man was lonely. Excluding the occasional waves from adult neighbors, and the routine mocking (remember the shuffle) from neighborhood children, not many people paid very much attention to the Old Man. Maybe he preferred to maintain his seemingly banal and routine life. Rory never made fun of the Old Man, for his own grandfather used to have the same shuffle. He remembered how sad and frustrated the shuffle made his grandfather. He didn’t understand how (or why) the other children, some being his friends, could be so cruel. Rory couldn’t tell them to leave the Old Man alone, they would only ridicule him more. All he could do was refrain from joining in—thinking of his own grandfather, and the shaking sadness.
Depending on the weather, the Old Man usually walked for roughly forty-five minutes to one hour. Rory wasn’t sure as to the exact route that the Old Man travelled, but knew he passed by certain houses, on certain blocks, before eventually coming back down the street the same way he had started. The climb up his own steps was often difficult for the Old Man, especially in the cold and snow. Slowly, steadily, step by step, the Old Man eventually made his way to the door. He always seemed to turn back as if expecting someone. No one was ever there, however. The Old Man would then close and lock his door. Normally, Rory would not catch sight of the Old Man until the next day’s walk, and usually from a window in his home; but, he would sometimes see him pass by a friend’s yard. He didn’t like seeing the Old Man while playing with friends. His friends would make fun of the way the Old Man walked, and Rory could only stand in the yard while desperately waiting for the event to pass. These moments brought Rory much anguish. He suffered silently for the Old Man.
Life for a twelve year old is viewed through a different lense than those of other ages. Some of Rory’s concerns were wondering what snacks were readily available, how much freedom remained until school started on Monday mornings, and what adventures awaited his group of friends. From time to time, while walking home from a friend’s house, Rory would think of the Old Man. On days after snow showers, the Old Man’s trail seemed to be frozen in the sidewalk. A reminder of the shaking sadness that Rory’s grandfather suffered. A reminder of the mocking that Rory had grown to despise. A reminder of the unavoidable time table of life, and the apparent lack of mercy that it allowed.
One particular morning, Rory was outside shoveling the driveway for his parents when he noticed the frozen shuffle tracks of the Old Man’s walk from the day before. Rory had yet to see the Old Man out for his walk, and knew the path would be dangerous with ice if it wasn’t cleared. Rory took his shovel and began to clear the sidewalk while following the Old Man’s tracks. Where does he go? Rory thought as he plowed the path. Down his street, around the corner, and past a few houses belonging to friends, Rory started to piece together where the meandering path through the neighborhood was likely to lead.
The neighborhood park had been there for as long as Rory could remember. It was certainly older than himself. He had many memories of growing up and fishing at the park’s lake with his own grandfather. Rory missed those days, and he missed his grandfather even more—holding the cane pole and laughing for an afternoon. He had just started clearing the walking path within the park when a hoarse voice greeted him from behind.
“You there, what’s your name?”
Rory turned and was struck with surprise. Standing before him was a man in a gray wool coat with a trembling cane in hand.
“Rory, sir. I Live next door.”
“I know where you live,” The Old Man said in a laughing manner. “I just didn’t know your name.”
“Umm, yes sir, I was just…”
“The name’s Frank. Frank Harper,” the Old Man interrupted, his voice shaking.
“Hi, Mr. Harper. I’m Rory Finkle.”
“Well, what are you doing out here in this weather? Supposed to get quite a bit of snow today. All of this shoveling you are doing is only going to get covered up. You know, we have park workers that will come and clear these paths on Wednesday, don’t you?” The Old Man asked as he tried to steady himself with the cane.
“I wanted to clear the path for you. I knew it would get icy, and seeing as how you maybe have a little trouble walking, I didn’t want you to have an accident,” Rory nervously answered.
“That’s quite nice of you, young man. Would you like to help me finish my walk? There’s only about fifty more feet until I turn around and head back. If we spend too much time standing here we’ll both freeze where we stand,” Smirked the Old Man as he motioned towards his intended path of travel.
“Sure,” exclaimed Rory. He wasn’t sure why he was excited about this, but thought it might be because Mr. Harper reminded him of his grandfather. Rory felt a smile curl upwards on his face.
The two continued down the path for a brief while until arriving at a park bench that overlooked a small pond and playground equipment. Rory had to help the Old Man lower himself to the bench. The field was covered in a fluid like white. A pristine picture of winter deserving of a frame and a beautiful wall. The pond, frozen and peaceful. “This is my wife’s bench.” The voice of the Old Man cracked as he motioned. Using his glove, Rory wiped the snow off of a plaque on the top board of the bench. The wood was wet and cold. Dedicated To The Loving Memory of Eloise Harper, read the small metal plate. “My wife and I would walk to this spot every morning, of every day, no matter the weather”—the Old Man’s voice filled with emotion, but he was careful to not allow it to spill over the rim— “She always loved to sit and watch children playing with their friends or families.” The old man strained to finish. “In fact,” said the Old Man, “we donated this land to the neighborhood in order to build the park. I used to take my kid fishing in this very pond before the neighborhood was built. I know you and your friends enjoy playing here just as he once did.” Rory nodded his head in affirmation. “What do you say we head back for some hot chocolate, Rory? It’s a tradition in my household, we’ll invite your family over too.” Rory noticed what looked like excitement fill the Old Man’s face as his brows raised and waited for a response. Quickly, Rory responded, “that sounds great, Mr. Harper. We’ve got marshmallows at my house!”
Rory and the Old Man walked back up their street in the falling snow. The sidewalk was full of chalk white winter, but for a trace of shuffled tracks and a pair of size eight shoes alongside. Rory’s mind raced with the clarity of the events replaying in his head. He hadn’t been this excited about hot chocolate in years. It had been even longer since the Old Man had someone to walk along his side. The pleasure of hot chocolate was open to all ages.
