There Was An Old Man
On Friday afternoon, my son and I returned home from the video store, part of a typical pre-weekend routine. My attention automatically shifted to a little green house along McKee Road. The house was small and sat on a patch of farmland that had not yet succumbed to the city’s advance. The large trees provided shade and seemed to stand guard over the house. I searched the porch for him, but he wasn’t there. His chair was, but he, in his denim overalls, his hat, and his wave, were not. He had not been there for almost two weeks. Along with him, part of me was missing.
The trash bin out front stood empty, without the mounds of discards and plastic trash bags left there several days ago. The front door was closed tightly behind the screen door. It was mid-afternoon; it should have been open.
I never met the old guy, but I felt like I knew him. I felt this way because he always made time for me. He always had the time to raise his hand and offer a friendly wave when I drove by his home. The whole family grew used to expecting a wave. My ten-year-old daughter would crane her neck to see out of the car every time we drove by, hoping she could wave back.
I always waved back, secretly thanking him for being so generous as to recognize me with an unsolicited greeting. I wondered if his eyesight was good enough to tell who was driving by, or if he was just waving at the sound of a passing car. I wanted him to know I received and appreciated his wave, so I tooted my car horn twice whenever I passed.
There were never any cars out in front of his house unless someone was visiting. Usually, it was a Social Services vehicle or possibly a family member’s or friend’s car. It comforted me to know somebody had the time to stop in and check on him from time to time. But now the house was closed up, and he was gone.
I suspected something serious had happened because he hadn’t been on the front porch for a couple of weeks. “He” was Ernest “something”. Driving by, I could never read the faded last name printed following the “Ernest” on the mailbox. That day I slowed down to read the last name just to satisfy my curiosity, but the mailbox was gone.
In that moment, I realized I would never know who Ernest was. I felt as though I had blown a chance to know somebody that maybe I should have taken the time to meet. I am not sure what knowing him would have meant, or what it would have led to, if anything. I only knew I had lost the chance to stop by and say thanks for taking the time to share a friendly wave. The absence of the mailbox was the most blatant reminder of all that I was too late.
“Too late for what?” you might ask. The truth is, I am not sure.
Reflecting on what Ernest meant to me wasn’t really about Ernest at all. It was about me. It was about my life and what it had become. The hustle and bustle of day-to-day living kept me from meeting a man that might have been a significant blessing to me… or to him. His welcoming wave, consistently given to me, was accepted and appreciated but never returned with any of my time. Oh sure, I waved back and tooted the horn, but I never stopped to say, “Hey, my name’s Gary! How are you getting along?”
I am not sure what part of me would have been satisfied by doing that. Stopping may not have even been appropriate. I don’t know whether stopping would have been seen as a friendly gesture or an invasion of his privacy and peace. Certainly, it could have been perceived as threatening.
The significance of who Ernest was is something I will never know. I will never know whether he was a good man, had a family, and lived a good life. But I don’t have the authority to judge good or bad, and those other things about his life are probably none of my business anyway.
What about the roles each of us played in the other’s life? Granted, we never met, but in my mind, there is still something special about sharing a greeting every day. Something feels unfinished when it does not happen. Maybe my role was to let him know that he played a part in making the round trip to Harris Teeter more than just a round trip to Harris Teeter for us all. Maybe his role was to help my kids understand that sharing a greeting with another person is OK, even when you expect nothing in return.
Maybe his role was to remind me that a parallel world of people and things flashes by outside my rapid-paced world every day. I probably wouldn’t be any more or less successful by missing things like Ernest sitting on his front porch, waving to everybody who drove by. And as far as significance goes, Ernest played only a small role in my life.
So why do I feel a sense of loss when I drive by that little green house on McKee Road? Why do I always look for the little man on the porch? Why does lifting my hand to wave to an empty chair bring a tear to my eye? Why should something so insignificant affect me so much?
I wonder. I wonder how long it will be before the little green house is bulldozed into another housing development. I wonder when McKee Road will be four lanes wide, with no trace of what once was there.
But I will know. I was just lucky enough to look up and see his wave.
“Hey Ernest! How are you getting along? It’s good to see you too!” God bless you wherever you are, old friend!
Toot, toot…
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Thanks for reading my words.
I hope you enjoyed this piece!
Gary G. Wise
gdogwise@live.com
