The Walker

I have never met him. I don’t know his name. I am ashamed to say I have probably passed by him without even knowing he is there. I don’t know his exact circumstance although over time I have pieced together my own conclusions about him and why he has crossed my path from time-to-time.

Nearly every work day when I drive to work I travel the same streets. One particular street I drive crosses a state highway. It is here these two busy paths cross and where stands a traffic light. This traffic light usually forces me to stop, at least briefly, every day before I make a left turn toward my vocation. Needless to say, this specific intersection is one of the busiest traffic spots in Chattanooga every workday morning. It was at this place, as I sat waiting in line for that traffic light to give me permission to go forward, where I first noticed him.

He was an older man. He wasn’t dressed in a fine suit. As I saw him more often I noticed he usually wore khaki slacks and a plaid shirt. He topped it all off with a cap. When it was the least bit chilly or cold, he wore a windbreaker. Nearly every time I saw him he was walking on the sidewalk against traffic coming off the state highway onto the street where I sat to turn. He never seemed in a rush to go anywhere. Often, as he walked he held his hands folded behind his back.

I saw him walking one morning making me realize that this gentleman had been some part of my drive-to-work routine for several years. I recalled then one of the first times I noticed him. Then I thought maybe he had someone sick in the hospital sitting on the right side of the street. After months of recognizing him pacing the sidewalk, I realized that was likely not the case.

Still, he would walk. Slowly, deliberately, step-by-step, against the traffic toward the CVS Pharmacy on the corner. Sometimes I would see him stop so he could speak to others. One time I saw another older gentleman walking alongside him. That was unusual though. Usually he just walked alone.

Maybe, I considered, he lived in the neighborhood. Maybe his doctor advised him to walk some each day. Maybe that would be good for him. Maybe, I thought, but if it were me, I think I could choose a less busy time to walk such a busy street.

There have been times I have seen him on the same sidewalk walking with the flow of traffic toward the northeast, down the street I am trying to exit. Even in this direction I noticed he had that same steady pace with his hands folded behind his back.

This is when I began to try to determine a bit more about all this. Just past the CVS is a small assisted living facility. It sits close to the street across from the hospital. In the crush and rush of the traffic it can be hard to notice the building to understand what it is. After some thought, it made sense to me that this man has some loved one living in that facility.

Of course, I don't know that for certain but it seemed to resonate with me. One morning, I validated that thought when I saw him walk out the facility's front door. No matter his exact circumstances I imagined then he came by this facility each morning. His routine would have started earlier with a cup of strong black coffee. He would have driven his mid-sized pick-up from his house before sunrise just to beat the onslaught of traffic. At some point, his loved one needed some assistance that the facility personnel could only provide. This, I imagine, is when he told all in the sound of his voice, that he was going on a short walk. The facility employees would knowingly nod their heads at his words or maybe give him a wink as he walked from the room. Then, he would open the facility's front door to take the few steps to the sidewalk along this street I travel each day.

I imagined how every walk is a short one. I would think some internal clock tells him when it is okay to return. Still, with each step I wonder what he is thinking. Maybe every thought is consumed with his loved one. Maybe he is flooded with memories of better days. Maybe he wonders how life somehow has ended up here at this place and how he ends up here on this sidewalk every day, even for a very short time. Maybe he looks around sometimes only to wonder why everyone on the street seems to be in such a hurry. Maybe he even recognizes a few of the cars that came by at nearly the same time every day then maybe he wonders what their life is like, where they are going that day or what conversation is going on inside the car. 

Recently, I noticed I hadn't seen this man in awhile. I realized I missed seeing him walk that short stretch of street. I wondered what became of him. Then another morning I accelerated toward the green light only to have it turn to red making me stop sooner than I wished. There I was though, the first in line to turn when the lights changed next. As I sat there, I glanced to my left then turned straight ahead only to turn my head left again to make certain my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me. There, at the end of the sidewalk he stood, hands folded behind his back. He had stopped walked. He gazed off into the east. I wondered if he was looking at what waited ahead for him or if he was looking back at where he had been. He then began walking back down the street. Soon enough the traffic light turned to green allowing me to move forward toward my destination. The traffic here is so tightly bunched that it is all I can do to keep my eyes on the street ahead so that I can keep moving. On that day and the days which have followed when I can I sneak a peek in my rear view mirror as I pull away with the hope I might still see this older man, if only for a fleeting moment, walking down the sidewalk, slow, deliberate, hands behind his back.

Dad's Laugh

My eighty plus year old Dad fell into a creek recently. When I asked him about it, he just laughed. Then, he laughed some more.

I admit when I first heard about his cold-water adventure I wasn’t amused. As I learned a few details I came to understand the place where he fell. I knew it well enough to know it wasn’t just water he had to be wary of there, it was rocks and maybe even snakes. To top it off, he’s no longer a young man so the idea of him hopping rocks to hopscotch across a moving stream of water left me a bit unsettled.

A day earlier, I had called Mom and Dad. Dad was out at the time with my sister, who was in visiting for a few days. During the conversation, my Mom, in a hushed tone--which led me to believe she might be spilling secrets someone, say maybe my dad, had not wanted me to know--told me about his fall into the creek. Mom told me how my dad and my brother-in-law had hiked to a remote spot to secure ramps. For those who do not know, ramps are flavor-filled onions which grow in the wild during a short season in the spring, a down-home delicacy my Dad and brother-in-law have shared for decades. Mom then related how dad had somehow misjudged the distance between two rocks while crossing a creek and landed in the water.

A day later, I phoned back. Dad answered the phone this time. We talked briefly. Mom had a dental appointment that day so I was calling to check on how that went. As we began to wrap up the call, I remembered Dad’s creek adventure, so I mentioned it to him. This is when the laughter started.

I wasn’t sure why but as Dad began to explain the details he started laughing. He then started to talk about his experience some more only to laugh some more. Between his laughter, he kept trying to tell the story but mostly what came out was laughter. Soon, I was laughing with him. Eventually, Dad explained how he fell into the creek. By the time he finished, I had assured myself he was not harmed by the incident. Deep down, I knew that before though as I know him to be the toughest old bird around. We finished the call with another chuckle or two.

I stood on our porch for a moment letting the call soak in but all I could ponder was how much like my Dad I am in some ways. I can’t claim to know all the things he knows but some of what he relayed about his creek adventure I found myself understanding how I would have done or said the same thing he did. I could see myself making that last leap toward a rock and landing on it just to know that awful teeter-totter feeling of being unable to balance knowing the end result is cold creek water below. I could relate to having a memorable story to tell others but totally botching it by laughing my way through it. Mostly, I could see myself taking a moment or two to myself now and then to just guffaw at the total absurdity of a big, old grown man taking a tumble into the creek helpless to stop it at all.

Then I took a moment to appreciate the laughter Dad and I had just shared. Hearing him laugh, and hearing him lose control of that laughter, is one of my favorite feelings ever. Even now as I write this, I can’t help but grin just thinking of it all.

Becoming a father can be easy. Being a good father can be tough. There is pressure to provide for a family. There is a weight that comes with being a good example, employee, neighbor and citizen. There is stress making plans to be able to survive growing older. It can be enough to make a man humorless. I know my Dad felt those anxieties. He never has verbalized these things to me but the fact that he steered through them means enough thought and action took place on his part that when he had to he considered those things soberly and seriously. Understanding how he navigated such things makes me appreciate him now during the times when it seems I lose my own balance and tip over into the water so much so it feels I may drown in it all and gives me hope that I can come out the other side a bit wet but laughing a little.

This post is scheduled to appear just before Father’s Day. There will be a gift for him from us. Any gift we give though can’t compare to all he has done for us. And for me, the gift of hearing his laughter can only be matched by the understanding he gave me that it’s more than okay to laugh at yourself from time to time.