Yesterday, as I was sorting our household recycling into the complex’s blue-bins, a man strolled down the driveway. His brown boots were scuffed and the heels were worn crooked, and he was dressed in well-worn pants and a stained jacket. His bushy, ashen beard and scraggly hair made it difficult to determine age, but I’d guess he was over sixty.
He said something as he approached, but I didn’t make out what it was, and I said, “Pardon me?”
He smiled (or, I assumed he did: his eyes crinkled and his beard shifted upward) and said, “Good afternoon.”
I smiled and good-afternooned him back.
He started routing through the ‘mixed containers’ bin: I assume he was looking for returnable bottles (a fair number of people don’t return them to the bottle depot, so we have a few self-employed guys — like the gentleman beside me — that come around to set things right and make themselves a spare dollar or two).
I was about to go back inside, but the guy looked over at me and said, “How was your day?”
“To be honest,” I told him, “it wasn’t the best.” I stretched my sore back, rolled my shoulders and said, “Some days are better than others.”
“Can’t say I agree,” he said. “Every day’s pretty much perfect, just the way it is. I make sure I maintain a good posture, keep my body nimble with plenty of movement, and face life with peace and equanimity. Works wonders.”
I looked at him, said, “Take care,” and then I turned and walked into the building.
Just before I’d turned to walk away his eyes had crinkled and glinted, his beard had shifted upward, and he had given his head a little nod. I can’t get his face out of my mind.
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.
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db johnston
almost falling 