rage MIS June 27, 1990. This Week

PRIME TIME

Touching tale of two old codgers...

he old man sat
on the wooden
bench in front of
the cafe, day
after day, rain or shine.
The bench had been
placed there originally
for the bus stop, but we
hadn’t had local busses
for years. Our small vil-
lage would eventually be
swallowed up by the city,

but at_the time I worked
there, in the early ‘40s, in
the only cafe, the place
still retained its rural
flavor.

The old man was a solitary
person, never speaking, just
sitting, watching, and some-
times snoozing, gnarled hands
crossed over the head of his
cane, and the collar of his tat-
tered overcoat pulled up to
keep out the drafts. He lived

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alone, in a little shack hidden
in the cottonwoods at the edge
of town.

Several people, myself in-
cluded, tried to talk with him,
and just for afew moments, his
watery blue eyes would focus,
but then he would look away.
Finally people just gave up, ac-
cepting the old boy just as he
was.

but on the way to work every
morning I still said hello and
smiled. I was in my teens, life
was good and I wanted to
share the joy I felt with
everyone around me.

One afternoon I noticed that
the old grey tomeat that hung
around the back door of the
cafe living on handouts, had
made his way street-side and
was rubbing against the old
man’s legs. I watched, half ex-
pecting that the old fellow
would shoo Tom away with the
cane. He didn’t. He just ig-
nored Tom. But old Tom was a
cat not lightly ignored. When
weaving around the trousered
legs failed to evoke any ap-
preciation, he jumped up on
the old man’s lap, reaching up
and bumping the whiskered
chin with his hard old head. A
hand released itself from the
head of the cane, and

Send a postcard...

scratched the cat gently be-
hind the ears.

I thought they made a good
pair... both of them had seen
better days. Old Tom had
frozen ears and part of his tail
was missing, and the old man

~Goldenrod-

By IVY KENT

with his frayed coat, battered
felt hat and worn out shoes
didn’t look as if he had fared
much better.

I could just imagine Tom pur-
ring his appreciation. Probab-
ly telling the old man that he
too was alone, and cold, and
hungry, the old con-artist.

There probably wasn’t a cat in
town that lived higher on the
hog than Tom. He was an inde-
pendent old cuss, too. I had
never really thought that he
might be needing a little com-

panionship. At any rate he a

seemed to have the old man’s
number, and just possibly a lit-
tle companionship was what
was missing in his life, too.

yee that they would hit it
off.

“Any scraps for the cat, .
Miss?” The old man was stand-
ing in the open doorway, Tom
waiting expectantly behind
him. The old fellow’s voice was
cracked and a little harsh. It
was the first time I had ever
heard him speak. In fact it was
the first time I had seen him
show any interest in anything.
I went out to the kitchen,
heaped a paper plate with
scraps and put it in a bag. The
old man’s eyes lit up when [I
handed it to him, and he said
his thanks distinctly.

Bending down, he let the old
cat sniff the bag, then, cane
tapping, he started off down
the street.

“Come, cat,” I heard him say.
And old Tom, after a last know-
it-all look at me, turned and
trotted away at his heels.

they’ll know you |
were away

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vacation is like a dream. Itis
of interest to the person who
is having it, but boring to
hose who have to listen to the
replay.
What I like most about postcards is that they

are smal] and you can’t write much of a mes-
sage. The classic one, “Having

- That’s why my motto is Always Send Post —

Cards. They'll know you were away.

Carry four phototgraphs. One should be of
you, taken on the last day of vacation when you
had the best tan, were wearing the white out-
fit, had your tummy sucked in and were posed
in front of the $‘50 a night hotel down the block
from where you stayed.

No doubt you will have shot

a wonderful time. Wish you
were here.” covers it.

six rolls of film, but the odds
are that 36 per cent of them

Anyone not a blood relation

will be overexposed and half of

should be spared the account of
your day-to-day activities.
They only inquire because they
are polite. It’s like asking “How
do you do?” Answer “Great!”
and you will win a friend. Go
into detail and their eyes will
glaze over.

Don’t spend the last week of
your vacation editing your
videos in preparation for the
welcome home party. Although
all vacation videos would

By JOAN MYLES

the rest will be doubles you
took just in case. Your friends
might sit still for one of you in
front of the Eiffel Tower but if
you show them two shots of the
pigeons in the park, they’ll
start planning how they can
get out the door without being
rude.

Send them a post card with a
photo of the area’s biggest

looks just like this!” They'll be

benefit from being rigorously

edited, chances are that only your milkman
knows you have been away. Why would the
garden club hold a gala to celebrate your
return when nobody knew you were gone?

Going to the office for the first time after
spending two weeks whitewater rafting in
New Zealand can be a let down. Your perspec-
tive on life has changed completely. You are
trimmer than you have ever been and your tan
is more bronze than beige. The office mother
hen greets you at the door, pats your hand and
says “ You were off sick on Friday, weren’t you?
Do you feel better now?”

delighted you remembered
them while you were having so much fun. On
your return theyll be sure to comment on your
tan.

You'll be spared the tedium of shopping for
souvenirs. Nobody really wants a can opener
from Cancun. Garage sales are full of mugs
from Maine. What your friends want from you
is word that you arrived safely and that you
haven't forgotten them. Sending post cards
means you spend more time on the beach and
less in the gift shop.

I’m writing this while waiting for my sister-
in-law to finish her shopping in Banff. The -
weather’s great. Wish you were here.

tourist attraction. Write “Ita EB