And now, a little story. Here we go: Today I went for a walk with a friend of mine in the River Valley. We saw the usual things: runners, cyclists, young couples, old couples, new friends, and old friends, etc. After an hour or so, our walk was almost complete. As we were making our way up the hill, I saw a man, sitting on the wooden railing that surrounds the landing of one of the staircases on the hill. His shoes were off, jacket casually slung over the opposing wooden railing, wearing a faded charcoal t-shirt and cotton running shorts with light blue socks. At a glance, you'd think he was a runner taking a break. But upon a longer than average glance (something that some people might consider as starring. I don't know, I felt I was looking while passing. In a non-weirdo way.) you'd see that there's more to him. I began to wonder. Late 50s I'd guess for age, fancy reading glasses resting on the tip of his nose, and an old leather bound book in his hands. A professor or scholar is what I imagined him to be. With my ever degenerating vision, I tried to catch a glimpse of the title of his book without looking like some weird stranger starring at him. To the misfortune of my curiosity, I couldn't see what it was, but I did see that the lettering was in gold. Faded and cracked. Worn out from many years of existence and it's pages turned over and over and over again. What a wonderful journey that book must have been on. Now the book of brown leather and worn gold letters bask in the August sun, sharing it's tales once again with a man just enjoying a peaceful evening. How comforting it must be. If you were me, what would you do? Just walk on by after the autonomic reaction to look at a stranger and think nothing of it? Would you approach the man? Ask him about his book and have a delightful little conversation in passing? I probably would have if: a) I wasn't with my friend, and b) I wasn't a nervous, indecisive, procrastinating chicken-shit. I imagined the conversation would have been fun. Intriguing, a delectable addition to the warm almost autumn (yay!) evening. He would tell me of how he came across the book in his grandfather's study when he was just a wee lad. Pop-pop. He'd tell me that's what he called his grandfather. A small grin and quiet chuckle would follow as he had a moment with his memory. To change the direction of the subject, so as to not seem rude, he would ask me about my grandfather. I would say that my Gpa has worked hard for a number of years to build a family tree by delving into many photo albums and old newspaper clippings, journals from relatives past, and traveling to Scotland to visit those still living to swap stories and photos. Stories and photos of their youth and their present families. Gpa is also really good with digital cameras but can't seem to get a grasp on Facebook yet. It's new, but he will know more about than myself in a short while. A quick study he is. Bookman and I would draw the brief but deep topic of discussion to a close, wish each other a good night and enjoyable reads of books to come. No names were ever exchanged. Two random souls met over the question of an old book; our paths crossed for a moment and then it was gone. Simple, but I would hope that it warmed the cockles of his heart like it did mine. A dream within a dream. The reality is bookman was relaxing and taking it all in. Being casual and laxidazy in the space he had temporarily claimed as his own. Space to share with his antique friend. I would like to have more evenings like the bookman had. And the adventurous life the book must have had. Even though nothing verbal was shared, I'll do my best. You too. Breathe.
August 27, 2009
Bookman and I: A Few Moments In the August Sun.
My little darlings, it's been too long. And for that, I offer you my sincere apologies. In my absence, I wonder if you've thought about what mystic wisdom I should return with. I've wondered the same. I've been thinking of various things and observing different people. For now I'll just share one, save the rest for future posts my fellow bloggers. 
And now, a little story. Here we go: Today I went for a walk with a friend of mine in the River Valley. We saw the usual things: runners, cyclists, young couples, old couples, new friends, and old friends, etc. After an hour or so, our walk was almost complete. As we were making our way up the hill, I saw a man, sitting on the wooden railing that surrounds the landing of one of the staircases on the hill. His shoes were off, jacket casually slung over the opposing wooden railing, wearing a faded charcoal t-shirt and cotton running shorts with light blue socks. At a glance, you'd think he was a runner taking a break. But upon a longer than average glance (something that some people might consider as starring. I don't know, I felt I was looking while passing. In a non-weirdo way.) you'd see that there's more to him. I began to wonder. Late 50s I'd guess for age, fancy reading glasses resting on the tip of his nose, and an old leather bound book in his hands. A professor or scholar is what I imagined him to be. With my ever degenerating vision, I tried to catch a glimpse of the title of his book without looking like some weird stranger starring at him. To the misfortune of my curiosity, I couldn't see what it was, but I did see that the lettering was in gold. Faded and cracked. Worn out from many years of existence and it's pages turned over and over and over again. What a wonderful journey that book must have been on. Now the book of brown leather and worn gold letters bask in the August sun, sharing it's tales once again with a man just enjoying a peaceful evening. How comforting it must be. If you were me, what would you do? Just walk on by after the autonomic reaction to look at a stranger and think nothing of it? Would you approach the man? Ask him about his book and have a delightful little conversation in passing? I probably would have if: a) I wasn't with my friend, and b) I wasn't a nervous, indecisive, procrastinating chicken-shit. I imagined the conversation would have been fun. Intriguing, a delectable addition to the warm almost autumn (yay!) evening. He would tell me of how he came across the book in his grandfather's study when he was just a wee lad. Pop-pop. He'd tell me that's what he called his grandfather. A small grin and quiet chuckle would follow as he had a moment with his memory. To change the direction of the subject, so as to not seem rude, he would ask me about my grandfather. I would say that my Gpa has worked hard for a number of years to build a family tree by delving into many photo albums and old newspaper clippings, journals from relatives past, and traveling to Scotland to visit those still living to swap stories and photos. Stories and photos of their youth and their present families. Gpa is also really good with digital cameras but can't seem to get a grasp on Facebook yet. It's new, but he will know more about than myself in a short while. A quick study he is. Bookman and I would draw the brief but deep topic of discussion to a close, wish each other a good night and enjoyable reads of books to come. No names were ever exchanged. Two random souls met over the question of an old book; our paths crossed for a moment and then it was gone. Simple, but I would hope that it warmed the cockles of his heart like it did mine. A dream within a dream. The reality is bookman was relaxing and taking it all in. Being casual and laxidazy in the space he had temporarily claimed as his own. Space to share with his antique friend. I would like to have more evenings like the bookman had. And the adventurous life the book must have had. Even though nothing verbal was shared, I'll do my best. You too. Breathe.
And now, a little story. Here we go: Today I went for a walk with a friend of mine in the River Valley. We saw the usual things: runners, cyclists, young couples, old couples, new friends, and old friends, etc. After an hour or so, our walk was almost complete. As we were making our way up the hill, I saw a man, sitting on the wooden railing that surrounds the landing of one of the staircases on the hill. His shoes were off, jacket casually slung over the opposing wooden railing, wearing a faded charcoal t-shirt and cotton running shorts with light blue socks. At a glance, you'd think he was a runner taking a break. But upon a longer than average glance (something that some people might consider as starring. I don't know, I felt I was looking while passing. In a non-weirdo way.) you'd see that there's more to him. I began to wonder. Late 50s I'd guess for age, fancy reading glasses resting on the tip of his nose, and an old leather bound book in his hands. A professor or scholar is what I imagined him to be. With my ever degenerating vision, I tried to catch a glimpse of the title of his book without looking like some weird stranger starring at him. To the misfortune of my curiosity, I couldn't see what it was, but I did see that the lettering was in gold. Faded and cracked. Worn out from many years of existence and it's pages turned over and over and over again. What a wonderful journey that book must have been on. Now the book of brown leather and worn gold letters bask in the August sun, sharing it's tales once again with a man just enjoying a peaceful evening. How comforting it must be. If you were me, what would you do? Just walk on by after the autonomic reaction to look at a stranger and think nothing of it? Would you approach the man? Ask him about his book and have a delightful little conversation in passing? I probably would have if: a) I wasn't with my friend, and b) I wasn't a nervous, indecisive, procrastinating chicken-shit. I imagined the conversation would have been fun. Intriguing, a delectable addition to the warm almost autumn (yay!) evening. He would tell me of how he came across the book in his grandfather's study when he was just a wee lad. Pop-pop. He'd tell me that's what he called his grandfather. A small grin and quiet chuckle would follow as he had a moment with his memory. To change the direction of the subject, so as to not seem rude, he would ask me about my grandfather. I would say that my Gpa has worked hard for a number of years to build a family tree by delving into many photo albums and old newspaper clippings, journals from relatives past, and traveling to Scotland to visit those still living to swap stories and photos. Stories and photos of their youth and their present families. Gpa is also really good with digital cameras but can't seem to get a grasp on Facebook yet. It's new, but he will know more about than myself in a short while. A quick study he is. Bookman and I would draw the brief but deep topic of discussion to a close, wish each other a good night and enjoyable reads of books to come. No names were ever exchanged. Two random souls met over the question of an old book; our paths crossed for a moment and then it was gone. Simple, but I would hope that it warmed the cockles of his heart like it did mine. A dream within a dream. The reality is bookman was relaxing and taking it all in. Being casual and laxidazy in the space he had temporarily claimed as his own. Space to share with his antique friend. I would like to have more evenings like the bookman had. And the adventurous life the book must have had. Even though nothing verbal was shared, I'll do my best. You too. Breathe.
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