Short Story: Old People in the Park

Benches in the Park

by C.J. 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 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.  He was 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 his 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 once said, "With all of the beautiful children in the world, where do 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. 

Pigeons in the Park

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 having to remember people and names. 

After all, your mind is just like any other muscle and all muscles need to be exercised. Remembering everyone’s name and face is like a private game they play. Maybe it even helps them to ignore their pains and their problems for a little while."

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 down 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. 

Checkers Table in the Park

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 angry about, Grampa?"

The old man smiled lovingly at the boy. He cleared his throat again and in a slow, determined voice, he explained to his grandson that to some of the old folks, the daily checkers games were a way of making some sense out of a changing world that they didn‘t feel a part of any more. He said, in a way, it was like keeping them in touch with a world they did know -- and it got them out of their recliner chairs and away from their TV sets for a little while, too.

The old man went on to explain to the boy that the three men who seemed to be in a heated discussion weren’t really arguing. Oh, they antagonized and criticized each other a little bit, just to keep their juices flowing, but they were careful not to be mean or hurtful. 

He said sometimes they even acted a little bit wise by bragging, or maybe griping, about the good old days. You know, talking about their old girlfriends, or teasing the others about their old girlfriends.

The boy giggled at his grampa's explanation and then in typical little-boy fashion, he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

By now, the pigeons had begun to congregate at the boy‘s feet again. They came tentatively at first, then with a little more fervor. It always amazed me how the feed-ees recognized so easily which feet belonged to the specific feed-er, because somehow they always knew and went straight to them.

The boy stuck his hand once again into the rumpled brown bag and brought out his next offering for the hungry rascals on the ground below. Both of them sat in silence, watching and grinning as the greedy winged goblins jockeyed into position for the next morsel tossed from the small hand.

The boy then turned his face up to look into his grandfather’s eyes and he asked him how long everyone stayed here in the park and how they knew when it was time to go. The old man sighed. His eyes were still focused on the pigeons. At first, I thought he hadn’t heard the boy, but then I saw him lovingly pat the blond curls on top of his grandson's head.

The grandfather told him they stayed till it started to get dark, or sometimes, until it just got too cold to be there any longer. Then, one by one, they waved goodbye, again calling each other by name just as they did every day when they first got there. Then they went home and, for many of them, back into the past, too.

The boy nodded, then he smiled up at the old man again, and both renewed their feeding ritual of the pigeons.

After a little while, the boy asked his grandfather how he knew so much. The old man told him that when you got to be his age … (a big sigh), well, there were some things you just knew. 

With that, the youngster looked up at his grandfather with a concerned look on his face and said, “Grampa, I love you. You’re NOT old. You’re … you’re like a shiny red apple. You’re ripe and you're  j u s t  right.”

The old man laughed out loud and, God help me, I did, too. And maybe it was the dwindling light, or somehow, just a trick of my eyes, but I could swear I saw the lines in his face smooth out. He looked a full ten years younger and I was surprised to find a tear on my own cheek as I watched the old man swipe at his eyes when his laughter had finally subsided.

Slowly, the old man looked up into the sky. He told his grandson they ought to be getting along home. As they rose to leave, the grandfather replaced the now empty rumpled paper bag in his pocket and stood. 

Grandfather and Grandson

One by one, the others in the park raised an arm and called him by name, almost in unison, 

“Bye, Gabe.”

He, in turn, did the same. “Bye, Herb, Sam, Max, Shorty, Charlie, Gib.”

“Hey, Gabe. We still on for checkers tomorrow at nine?” Called one man who was sitting next to the men playing checkers on the stone table.

“Sure, Sam. Lookin' forward to it,” was Gabe, the grandfather’s, response.

I was sure God would forgive his little white lie … and the last I saw of the little boy, who was at the beginning of his life, and the wise and loving old man nearing the end of his, they were walking slowly back down the path through the park, hand in hand.

[From the Book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck]

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Short Story: In Honor of Life

Beautiful Flowers

by CJ Heck

It was Memorial Day and, as she did every year, Sharon Cleary drove to the Eternity Gardens Cemetery with three of the prettiest spring bouquets she could find.

She took this day seriously. It was her private, personal time to honor family members who died in war. It was her way to show she cared.

One bouquet was always for Great-Grampa, "PJ" Mullerton, who died in a bunker during the first world war. Another bouquet was for Uncle Theo Tarns, who was killed when his bomber was shot down in the second world war.

She had never met Uncle Theo, but she was still fiercely proud of him and, as with great-grampa, forever indebted to him for his service. The last bouquet of flowers was always the most difficult for her. She always made sure this bouquet was the largest and most colorful of the three. This one had to be special. It was for Daddy.

Sharon was only six when she hugged Steven Cleary's neck tightly for the last time at the airport in Stewartsville. She remembered crying and pleading with him to stay. "Please, Daddy, don't go. I will miss you and so will Mommy. Please stay with us. We need you." She knew her father had been just as sad to leave them. She saw the tears he silently wiped from his cheek after he hugged her and then turned to hug and kiss her mother.

Steven had been killed in action in Vietnam six months later, a decorated soldier and a hero. Her mother, Sarah Cleary-Buddig, had eventually framed his medals and they still hung on the wall beside his picture over the fireplace. Sharon remembered what a sorrowful time that had been, after the family learned of his death. But as sad as she had been, she had never felt so completely helpless as she did, hearing her mother sobbing into her pillow at night and not knowing how to comfort her.

Sharon had been so lost in thought that she nearly missed Uncle Theo's grave. She had to turn and walk back two rows and she chided herself for not paying more attention. After she finished her prayers and was done talking to Uncle Theo, she took a deep breath -- it was time to find Daddy. Her heart always felt like it was in her throat as she walked the steep path to the upper section where her father rested in the Cleary family plot.

Just as she reached the top, she noticed an elderly woman bending over one of the older headstones on the left. Sharon watched in silence as the woman tenderly kissed a folded paper and then slipped it under a vase of roses on the flat marble headstone. Then she adjusted the small American flag that was stuck in the ground to the right of the marker.

As she stood, she suddenly turned and their eyes met. Sharon was stunned. She could almost feel the woman's thoughts through the look on her face and what was in her eyes. Then just as quickly, the moment was gone and the woman had turned away.

How amazing, Sharon thought, as she watched the woman walk slowly back down the path towards the entrance gate. The woman was crying -- I could see her tears, Sharon thought -- but she had the most beautiful smile on her face at the same time. Sharon felt compelled to go over to the headstone and read the letter the woman had so carefully tucked under the vase.

"To my husband, my lover, my friend:
I will always love you.
I hope you like the roses.
All my love forever,
Your Maeve"

She read the short note and, now crying herself, the words filled her with a beautiful new awareness. She could almost see the wheels of time turning the days and months to years, and then you realize that it's been a whole lifetime that a loved one has been gone. One day, like a bucket with a hole, you can see the sands of grief sifting slowly through, and instead of mourning their death, you begin to celebrate everything they meant to you in life.

Sharon closed her eyes and, as she replaced the letter under the vase of roses, she quietly thanked the elderly woman and walked back to her family plot. Then she placed her third bouquet on the engraved marble monument for her father.

And as Sharon thanked Steven Adam Cleary once more for being her father, she remembered the love and the good times they did have together. This time when Sharon cried, she could also smile -- and the tears were tears of joy.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Short Story: "A Penny for His Thoughts"

Mocha Java Swirl Espresso

by CJ Heck

Libby sat scowling into her medium extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso.

The small round table wobbled with an audible racket as she shifted the hot paper cup from her left hand to her right, and then back again.

Oh, what I wouldn't give for a folded piece of cardboard to shove under that stupid table leg for stability -- and some blessed silence! She thought to herself, her attitude nearly as steaming as the coffee was.

Libby had to admit, she had never been any good at reading Richard's silences. She tried to remember how long it had been since she and Richard had talked to each other about anything, other than when the dry cleaning should be picked up, or whether the trash cans had been put out by the curb on Tuesday mornings. 

She sighed. Sometimes, what's not said says way more than what is.  She almost didn’t want to know what was behind the silence.

There was a time when she would have just asked, "Hun, what's wrong? Is there something we need to talk about?" But not anymore. The silence had gone on too long now. Besides, there were times when she did politely ask, "Something bothering you, Richard?"

But he always answered the same way, "Nothing, Elizabeth.  Nothing at all."

Maybe she should just leave well-enough alone. Truth was, she was afraid to ask him the exact words, "What is wrong?" now. They weren't married, only living together, and had been for five years. Whatever was wrong would probably hurt and not be something she wanted to hear. Then again, she thought, maybe it's something I need to hear.

Libby's imagination was turning somersaults as she tried to imagine how the conversation might go:

First, I would smile and ask, "Richard? How about a penny for your thoughts?"

He would then say, "Elizabeth? Let's not play games. Would you like to tell me where you're going with this?"

Then, I would say, "Well, you walk around in silence these days, Richard. You never talk to me anymore. Tell me what's going on in your mind ... and in your life, while you're at it."

Then Richard would get haughty. "Elizabeth, you're being ridiculous. Let's stop all of this foolishness, shall we?  You must have things to do.  What time is dinner?"

Then, naturally, I would try again, "Talk to me, Richard ... you know, a penny for your thoughts. Would five or six cents get me the truth and maybe spare my feelings? Richard, come on, play along. How about two nickels then, that's ten cents? Would that sweeten the pot? Or maybe three dimes for two or three honest thoughts -- tell me what you are thinking right now, this very minute."

Of course, Richard doesn't like it when I use sarcasm, so he would probably get angry at this point, Libby thought. "Oh for God's sake, Elizabeth, stop it! I don't know what's gotten into you today! That is enough!  You don't want to push me! You may not like what I'll say. Do not push me with this game of yours, Elizabeth."

If that is truly what he would say, I still wouldn't be able to stop myself, "Okay, Richard, two quarters then. I DO want to know. Will that buy me your thoughts? Wait, I’ll even up it to a dollar for one clear, loving thought. That’s all I want … it’s all I need, but it has to be the truth, Richard. I need to know the truth. What is going on in that head of yours? Do you still love me, Richard?"

Libby slammed back to reality when the hot, medium, extra sugar, extra cream, Mocha Java Swirl Espresso suddenly belched all over her hands, the wobbly, noisy table, her lap, and the floor. She hadn't even realized she was doing it, but during the brief interlude into her imagination, she had squeezed her paper cup hard out of rage and pent up frustration.

As Libby helped the waitress clean up the mess, she couldn't help thinking, "I would never tell him this now, but he could have had me and everything I own forever if, just once, he had talked to me, lovingly talked to me ...


(from the book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", by CJ Heck)

Read Another Book Excerpt

Buy at Amazon







"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck