108 fountains
01-20-2014, 01:49 PM
Any and all comments are welcome.
Old John
In our garden in the back yard grow a large number of tall rosebushes of white and red. My earliest recollections of Old John see him walking with me through the delicate perfumes and petals. I was only four or five then, and Old John had already been “old” for a long, long time. His hair and whiskers were white and his eyes were grayish-blue. His hands were rough yet he talked in gentle whispers. He was thin and appeared even thinner when he wore his faded blue overalls, and through my young, boyish eyes, he seemed so very fragile that I felt obliged to hold his hand lest a good wind should blow him over. The memories softly fill my eyes now, but I welcome them for the days when he laughed at all my childhood frolics and I loved him dearly – as a little boy loves an old man.
He was my great grandfather, but I doubt if, at my age then, I understood just what the relationship meant. Everyone just called him “Old John,” and I was no exception.
He lived in a little two-room trailer at the side of our house. He always ate supper with us, and more often than not, lunch too. To be useful to my mother, he peeled potatoes. That was his job – to peel the potatoes. Surely, we did not eat potatoes every day, but in the mists of my memory, I see him sitting on a wooden chair in front of his trailer every day, wearing his wooden shoes, with his paring knife and a basket a potatoes in front of him.
A family legend related the story of how two 15-year-old cousins from northern Germany disguised themselves as girls to board a ship for America in order to escape being conscripted to fight in the local German wars. They revealed themselves to the captain only after the ship had been out to sea for several days – when it was too late to turn back. It was only when I was much older and Old John was gone from us that I realized that he was one of the German cousins. In my youth, I just could never picture Old John as having once been young.
When I was small, I remember, we passed every day together whether it rained, or snowed, or shined. He enjoyed watching me use his bed as a trampoline – it made his mattress comfortable, he would say. Then we would ruin our dinners by sharing a secret banquet of apricot jam spread thickly over slices of fresh bread. We walked in the garden until the quiet early evening hours when we would watch the rabbits run, and the redbirds fly, and the sun list and languish on the edge of the sky.
The years passed quickly and yet so slowly, like a measured autumn eve. I found myself no longer a child, but still not yet a man. Old John was still with us, but he was thinner and he used a cane to walk.
How I took for granted his simple presence in those years when I was growing, slowly losing my childhood friend in the course of passing time. And for every day that died with my neglecting to speak a word to him, how less often did I say those words, and how foreign did they seem to my tongue, of a simple “Hello, Old John. How are you feeling today?”
Those thoughts were winding through my mind one day in the summer when I was seventeen, while Old John, leaning on his cane for support, stood among the roses, listening to the breeze play its music on the air.
I watched him for a while, remembering the old times, and then, to my surprise, I found myself in the garden with him – and with the red roses. In my seventeen years, I had learned to hide my emotions well; there was only a slight tremor in my voice as I said, “Hi, Old John,” but inside my heart was overflowing.
He greeted me with a smile that dissolved the years between us since we last walked in the garden together. “The roses look pretty today,” I said.
“Yes, they always look best in the late afternoon sun, they do,” he stated thoughtfully.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken the trouble to notice them,” said I with a touch of remorse.
He looked at me with an understanding wink and again I was a child.
“I’m a-glad you’ve come to walk with me today,” he said in his gentle voice.
“So am I, Old John,” I answered earnestly.
“I thought you might come out today,” he said, shading his eyes against the slanting sunbeams of the summer sky. “I’ve been a-wanting to speak with you lately.”
“You have?” I asked wonderingly.
Then he turned his noble blue eyes upon me and said, “Because there is a spirit between us – I know your feelings. And I wanted to tell you that when I am gone from here…” and he drifted off, as if he were thinking of another place and time.
“What are you thinking, Old John?” I asked as he touched a gorgeous white blossom.
“I look at these roses, I do,” he said. “And I’ve been a-doing it for many summers, and I still wonder what makes them grow and makes them die. Why, you could almost tell me now with your high-school learning.” he chuckled, still touching the blossom. “Even a botany school can’t say what really makes them grow and die, can it? All these things I don’t understand…” He broke off again and his blue eyes clouded.
I asked searchingly, “Would it really make a difference if you did understand it all, Old John?”
“No, you’re right,” he said with a chuckle and a smile. And then he spoke slowly and the years of his life came together to form an eternity within him. “I’ve been happy all my long life,” he said. “Of course, there have been sad moments, but those only serve to reveal what true happiness is and to measure its depths. And I have known happiness – so much happiness – I think… Yes, I think I am happy because I love the roses so much and I love a-playing with the children, I do, because I’m no wiser… I am a child myself in the things I can’t understand.”
As he spoke, the summer breeze swirled, and white and red petals fluttered to his feet. “And when I’m gone from here…” he continued, “I don’t know what happens then. I don’t know what is beyond. I don’t know if there is anything beyond. But when I think about it,” he said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, “even if there is nothing more, that’s not so bad. That’s alright.” He turned his head and gazed at the garden and at me, and he took in a long, deep, delicious breath of air. “Yes, even if there is nothing more, this – the roses, the children – this is enough.”
Old John and I watched the sun set that evening and I felt that I knew him for the first time – an ordinary man with extraordinary wisdom. And I can see him now, whenever I look in the garden, the breeze playing games with his white whiskers and the red roses behind his head like a crown.
A child of life, realizing without understanding, aware without knowing – loving and blissful in the beauty of the eternal. And though he never quoted the Bible or ever went to church, he is not alone among the roses – for there is a Presence near him, stronger and surer than he or I, with a compassion that holds its own reward for a simple fellow like Old John.
Old John
In our garden in the back yard grow a large number of tall rosebushes of white and red. My earliest recollections of Old John see him walking with me through the delicate perfumes and petals. I was only four or five then, and Old John had already been “old” for a long, long time. His hair and whiskers were white and his eyes were grayish-blue. His hands were rough yet he talked in gentle whispers. He was thin and appeared even thinner when he wore his faded blue overalls, and through my young, boyish eyes, he seemed so very fragile that I felt obliged to hold his hand lest a good wind should blow him over. The memories softly fill my eyes now, but I welcome them for the days when he laughed at all my childhood frolics and I loved him dearly – as a little boy loves an old man.
He was my great grandfather, but I doubt if, at my age then, I understood just what the relationship meant. Everyone just called him “Old John,” and I was no exception.
He lived in a little two-room trailer at the side of our house. He always ate supper with us, and more often than not, lunch too. To be useful to my mother, he peeled potatoes. That was his job – to peel the potatoes. Surely, we did not eat potatoes every day, but in the mists of my memory, I see him sitting on a wooden chair in front of his trailer every day, wearing his wooden shoes, with his paring knife and a basket a potatoes in front of him.
A family legend related the story of how two 15-year-old cousins from northern Germany disguised themselves as girls to board a ship for America in order to escape being conscripted to fight in the local German wars. They revealed themselves to the captain only after the ship had been out to sea for several days – when it was too late to turn back. It was only when I was much older and Old John was gone from us that I realized that he was one of the German cousins. In my youth, I just could never picture Old John as having once been young.
When I was small, I remember, we passed every day together whether it rained, or snowed, or shined. He enjoyed watching me use his bed as a trampoline – it made his mattress comfortable, he would say. Then we would ruin our dinners by sharing a secret banquet of apricot jam spread thickly over slices of fresh bread. We walked in the garden until the quiet early evening hours when we would watch the rabbits run, and the redbirds fly, and the sun list and languish on the edge of the sky.
The years passed quickly and yet so slowly, like a measured autumn eve. I found myself no longer a child, but still not yet a man. Old John was still with us, but he was thinner and he used a cane to walk.
How I took for granted his simple presence in those years when I was growing, slowly losing my childhood friend in the course of passing time. And for every day that died with my neglecting to speak a word to him, how less often did I say those words, and how foreign did they seem to my tongue, of a simple “Hello, Old John. How are you feeling today?”
Those thoughts were winding through my mind one day in the summer when I was seventeen, while Old John, leaning on his cane for support, stood among the roses, listening to the breeze play its music on the air.
I watched him for a while, remembering the old times, and then, to my surprise, I found myself in the garden with him – and with the red roses. In my seventeen years, I had learned to hide my emotions well; there was only a slight tremor in my voice as I said, “Hi, Old John,” but inside my heart was overflowing.
He greeted me with a smile that dissolved the years between us since we last walked in the garden together. “The roses look pretty today,” I said.
“Yes, they always look best in the late afternoon sun, they do,” he stated thoughtfully.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve taken the trouble to notice them,” said I with a touch of remorse.
He looked at me with an understanding wink and again I was a child.
“I’m a-glad you’ve come to walk with me today,” he said in his gentle voice.
“So am I, Old John,” I answered earnestly.
“I thought you might come out today,” he said, shading his eyes against the slanting sunbeams of the summer sky. “I’ve been a-wanting to speak with you lately.”
“You have?” I asked wonderingly.
Then he turned his noble blue eyes upon me and said, “Because there is a spirit between us – I know your feelings. And I wanted to tell you that when I am gone from here…” and he drifted off, as if he were thinking of another place and time.
“What are you thinking, Old John?” I asked as he touched a gorgeous white blossom.
“I look at these roses, I do,” he said. “And I’ve been a-doing it for many summers, and I still wonder what makes them grow and makes them die. Why, you could almost tell me now with your high-school learning.” he chuckled, still touching the blossom. “Even a botany school can’t say what really makes them grow and die, can it? All these things I don’t understand…” He broke off again and his blue eyes clouded.
I asked searchingly, “Would it really make a difference if you did understand it all, Old John?”
“No, you’re right,” he said with a chuckle and a smile. And then he spoke slowly and the years of his life came together to form an eternity within him. “I’ve been happy all my long life,” he said. “Of course, there have been sad moments, but those only serve to reveal what true happiness is and to measure its depths. And I have known happiness – so much happiness – I think… Yes, I think I am happy because I love the roses so much and I love a-playing with the children, I do, because I’m no wiser… I am a child myself in the things I can’t understand.”
As he spoke, the summer breeze swirled, and white and red petals fluttered to his feet. “And when I’m gone from here…” he continued, “I don’t know what happens then. I don’t know what is beyond. I don’t know if there is anything beyond. But when I think about it,” he said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye, “even if there is nothing more, that’s not so bad. That’s alright.” He turned his head and gazed at the garden and at me, and he took in a long, deep, delicious breath of air. “Yes, even if there is nothing more, this – the roses, the children – this is enough.”
Old John and I watched the sun set that evening and I felt that I knew him for the first time – an ordinary man with extraordinary wisdom. And I can see him now, whenever I look in the garden, the breeze playing games with his white whiskers and the red roses behind his head like a crown.
A child of life, realizing without understanding, aware without knowing – loving and blissful in the beauty of the eternal. And though he never quoted the Bible or ever went to church, he is not alone among the roses – for there is a Presence near him, stronger and surer than he or I, with a compassion that holds its own reward for a simple fellow like Old John.