Old People in the Park

Old People in the Park

by CJ Heck 

One afternoon last fall, I grabbed a sweater and a book and, after stopping at Dunkin' Donuts for my favorite coffee to-go, I headed to our city's park. A people-watcher by nature, I love walking the pathways through the park and studying the people from my bench who also love being there. 

Not far into the park, I found a shaded bench where I could sit and read for awhile. Just across from me, an elderly man was talking with who I assumed to be a grandson, seated on the bench next to him.

The boy was six, maybe seven years old, with the most incredible blond curls framing what someday in maturity would be a very handsome face. His huge eyes looked adoringly up at his grandfather, as though searching his face for answers to his many questions and they were holding hands. 

When I look at any beautiful child, I can’t help but think of something my mother used to say, "With all of the beautiful children in the world, I wonder where all the homely adults come from." I smiled, partly because she had been right, but also because I still missed her terribly and the memory brought her closer to me. 

I overheard the boy ask his grandfather, "Grampa, why are there so many old people in the park every day?" 

The old man was quiet, thoughtful, for a minute. Then I heard him clear his throat. He let go of the boy's hand and slowly stretched an arm around the youngster's shoulders, pulling him close. Then in unhurried words, he told the boy, "Well, son, they're just too alone at home to want to stay there. Sometimes, old people need to be with other old people. Here in the park, they can share their favorite jokes and maybe play a lazy game of bocce ball or checkers to pass a little bit of time together." 

Then, looking down at the pigeons that had gathered on the ground around the bench, the old man reached into the pocket of his tan jacket and pulled out a small brown paper bag. He handed it to his grandson. The boy thanked him, reached into the rumpled bag, and with a big smile, began tossing pieces of popcorn, one by one, to the pigeons, favoring a gray one with a pronounced limp. 

As the boy did this, he asked the old man, "Grampa, why do they all call out names and wave at each new person that comes into the park?" 

The grandfather cocked his head, thinking, and as though measuring each word, he slowly said, "It's just a way of keeping their minds alive and well-oiled. You know, by remembering a person and their name. After all, your mind is just like a muscle and all muscles need to be exercised. Remembering everyone’s name and face is like a private game they all play.  Maybe it even helps them to ignore their pains and their problems." 

The boy nodded his understanding and continued to feed the pigeons, taking his temporary job quite seriously. Then, spotting a gray squirrel that had darted out from under the bench to steal a kernel of popcorn, he jumped up and stomped his small sneaker on the sidewalk with a loud "Shoo!" Of course, this also frightened the pigeons who instantly took to the air and it was so cute that it made me smile. Then the boy sat back down beside the old man, obviously disappointed by the sudden turn in events. 

The boy sat quietly for awhile, as he watched the old people in the park. As I mentioned, I'm a people watcher, by nature, and I followed where his eyes traveled. They stopped first on a couple of elderly men playing a game of checkers on a stone table. Then they moved on over to settle on a group of three even older men having what seemed to be a heated verbal exchange. 

As he looked from one little group to the other, he asked his grandfather whether he thought the men playing checkers ever got tired of doing that. "Do they just sit there every day doing the same thing for hours and hours?" Then without waiting for an answer, he glanced at the men who seemed to be arguing, and asked, "What do you think they're all upset about, Grampa?"