Walking Stan home
Walking Stan home was often an after church duty of mine; one that I usually volunteered for. A city block was a long hike for a man Stan’s age. I’d say, “Stan how old are you?” His reply, “I’m 92, oh, but I feel 120 today!” I always made sure Stan’s hearing aid was turned on … neither one of us knew how to sign.
I often recall in church, when the battery was low, it would eek-out a very high pitched sound; mimicking an attacking Raptor from the movie Jurassic Park.
Most of the time Stan only heard what he wanted to hear, dialing out a lot of loose porous talk. On our walks Stan would ramble on about his favorite subject, baseball, the Mets in particular, or as I liked to call them, the door Mets. But I wouldn’t say that to him, I let him be the pitcher of his own mound.
We’d talk many a time about life and its hidden rifts; how each of our clamoring gods could snatch us by our throats and squeeze the shame from our senses … But as Stan often cited, that sort of thing only happens to weaker men … men who couldn’t harness their gifts.
Slow — slower — concise steps … steadily moving forward through the war zone of life, procuring to depart a fast paced world.
I shouldered Stan over the rough and challenging sidewalk cracks; where a foot could easily slip-shattering a faultless lie; he knew I would be there to catch him if he were to stumble or fall, and I’d expect him to do the same for me.
This piece was submitted by Bob Mitchley.
To submit an original piece for consideration for the “Write on” column, email a story of 250-500 words to firstname.lastname@example.org. Topics for columns must be lifestyle related and be based on real, personal experiences. Topics cannot advertise a product or service.
Write on will be published the fourth/last Sunday of each month in the Lifestyle section as submissions are received.
Not all submissions will be published.