The Old Man.

I met an interesting old man today. He sat down next to me in the doctor’s office.
“How are you?” I politely volunteered, lifting my eyes off my magazine.
“Hi,” he said. There was a moment of pause, during which I could tell he was just one of those people who really wanted to talk to someone. And I was just one of those people who wanted to hear what he had to say.
“That looks like a doctor’s satchel,” he finally said, pointing at my black purse.
“You’re right,” I said. “It does.” There was another moment of silence, during which I tried figuring out why he noticed to point out that specific detail.
“I lived my whole life here,” he finally said. “This town used to have 24,000 people and 3,000 students. They told us that if they included the outskirts into the city limits we might get another post office.”
I love old folks in general, but I was really fascinated by this man’s willingness to talk to me about this. Clearly it was on his mind and he wanted to share with someone but might not have known with whom.
We talked for a few minutes, during which he explained to me that he was almost 85 years old and that he has lived his whole life here. I wish now that I had gotten his name, because it might have been interesting to look back into history and see where he fit in. That’s what I love about the past—the fact that there are people living among us today who know all about it.
He said that his great-uncle was in the Civil War and that he fought for the North with Kentucky. “My family has lived here for a long time,” he said.
I mentioned that I was from Russia and that I didn’t have any history here, to which he said, “You don’t sound like a Russian!” and his wife put down her newspaper and looked at me over her glasses.
“I suppose I lost my accent,” I explained.
As soon as he found out that I was Russian the old man jumped ardently right into explaining all about Bloomington’s history, starting with the very beginning. He rattled off the famous people who lived here, the populations during the different years, the changes in government, various changes to city layout, courthouse, etc.
Then, as if on cue, the nurse came in and called my name. I waited until the old man finished his thought, and then said, “It was very nice to get to talk to you, I wish I had gotten more time.” With a “Take care!” I left the room.
After I walked out of the office I wondered why this old man would want to tell me all these things. About his great-uncle in the Civil War. Was he trying to make a connection? Why did he mention the fact that he has roots here? What was he trying to establish? Was it political or social commentary? Or did he just simply want to converse with someone?
I wish I had stayed for longer to talk to this old man. All the way to my car I wanted to turn around and go back and sit in that waiting room for just a few more minutes, to find out what more he had to say. For some reason it made a very strong emotional impact on me, and I drove all the way home in silence wondering what it had all meant and why it impacted me the way it did.
Perhaps it was because he looked like my Grandpa. My own words echoed in my head, “I wish I had gotten more time.” Such a burned-out thought for me by now. How many times have I thought that before about anything and everything? Too many.
Anyways. Make of this story whatever you'd like. Always listen, though. And always take the opportunity to start a conversation.

--E.A.

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