Yesterday, January 21st, it finally snowed here in New York, the first measurable precipitation since a freak October blizzard crippled the area last year. Not a storm of epic proportions in the Northeast but a reminder that winter still lurks, waiting to spread its icy warmth on the landscape.
My truck slowly warmed up in the driveway as I put myself together for the drive into work. In my tote bag, a black woolen hat, favorite scarf, gloves with a gaping hole in one finger and travel mug filled with steaming hot coffee…I headed out the door, ready for anything.
Arming myself with four-wheel traction, I hit the road, noticing how peacefully quiet the trip was; no other cars were slipping and sliding along. It was Saturday and it seemed like everyone was hunkered-down at home, enjoying the snowfall, sheltered from the 18-degree temperature that made your fingers go numb instantly.
Almost everyone.
Out of nowhere, as I slowly drove down a hill, a small elderly man was walking along struggling to step in and out of snow piles left by plows. He had no gloves or even a hat to shield him from the brutal cold, just a red-checkered jacket and thin pants tucked into boots that seemed much too large for his feet. I slowed down as I passed him and quickly pulled to the side to stop. He approached my truck and I asked if he was okay, offering him a ride and a chance to get warm.
At first, he seemed confused, even disoriented but accepted my offer without further hesitation. Once inside, I thought about driving him to our local police station but first gave him the hat, gloves and scarf that I brought along with me; he was shivering badly. My tattered gloves fit him perfectly and as he gingerly put them on, he seemed to warm up quickly. I questioned him about where he lived, hoping that I could drive him back home. He refused, asking instead if I would take him to a local church, saying that he walked there daily to light a candle for his late wife.
The conversation turned to how much he missed her and his feelings of being a burden to his only daughter with whom he lived. Somehow, I sensed that his walks every day were an escape as well as a chance to be closer to the wife he still grieved over.
Pulling into the church parking lot, I offered to wait and drive him home but he again refused, telling me that his daughter picked him up each day by eleven o’clock. I wrote out my name and cell phone number on a slip of paper and gave it to him, along with some loose change, as he got out of my truck. He started to take off the hat and gloves but I stopped him and insisted that he keep them. Smiling, he thanked me and gave me a “God Bless” as he closed the door and went towards the church.
For the rest of the day, I could not get the old man off my mind and my co-workers kept insisting that I should have contacted the police. Consumed with guilt by the time work ended, I climbed back into my truck only to see that the paper I had given the man was lying there, on the seat. I was positive that I saw him tuck it into his pocket when I dropped him at church.
Shrugging it off, I stopped at a store before heading home and as I parked, I noticed a woman walking out with a hat and scarf similar to what I had given the old man earlier that day. As I got closer to her, I watched as she pulled gloves out of her pocket, one with a hole in it. It got the best of me and I made it a point to walk by her and make a comment about the cold weather and about how she was smart enough to be bundled up as I crammed my cold hands into my pockets. She smiled back and told me the gloves had belonged to her father who died several years earlier. I told her how sorry I was and shared that I had a hat and gloves exactly like what she was wearing but didn’t elaborate further.
The woman proceeded to tell me that her father had left home, after an argument. Even though it was snowing, he insisted on going on his daily walk and stormed out of the house wearing just a red checkered jacket, lightweight pants and boots. His head and hands were bare. She tried going after him but her car wouldn’t start and phone lines were down; she had to walk to a neighbor who drove her to the police station.
The old man’s lifeless body was found, hours later, just outside the doors of a church. Clutched in his frozen hands were a black hat, scarf and gloves and a few coins that he planned on using to light a candle in his wife’s memory.
Standing there, with a shocked expression on my face, I asked the woman when her father died.
She replied…”January 21, 1997, fifteen years ago today.”
