The old man

by Bill St.Onge—Michigan

The streets were completely dark, but the rain had stopped.

From where I stood next to the mailbox, I could see up the long flight of steps that disappeared into the trees atop the hill. There had to be sixty steps, and my legs were already aching from a long day of walking. Above, I could see the glow of a porch light between the pine boughs. Someone was home. Resigned, I grabbed the iron railing and started to pull myself up.

It was a small house. In the clearing around the house, I could see dozens of handmade birdhouses hung in the trees.

I rang the bell and saw a shadow inside make it’s way towards me.

I’’m not little, but this guy towered over me. He was shirtless, barrel-chested, tattooed, and his hands would have fit around a basketball had they not been so gnarled from arthritis. He was at least ninety years old, but as he walked into the light all I could see was his smile and his bright eyes.

I finished my rap and then we sat out under the porch light talking. He had done it all. He had been in work camps under Roosevelt, and spent time in a steel mill in Gary. In California, he drove a truck, and in Washington state he worked an apple picker up near Yakima. He had spent his life at hard labor, and lived alone now in this little house atop the hill.

When we were done, he went inside and came back with three wadded up dollar bills as a contribution ““for the union, brother,”” and then shook my hand.

It’’s funny. We go into the community to affect others, and end up being affected by them. All I know is that I was a better person when I came down those steps than I was when I went up.

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