What an Old Man Sees
Yesterday, on my walk to work, I passed by Roy Thompson Hall, the modern performance structure on King Street in downtown Toronto. There's a rectangular "lake" sunk into the concrete in front of the building, complete with a small stand of spruce and an outcropping of granite rock. I've always idly wondered whether the rock is real, but the idea is real, if you know what I mean. It puts me in mind of my boyhood home on Georgian Bay, and I appreciate that.
Anyway, I walk by there all the time, and something's always different, just like it is on a real body of water. What was different on this sunny morning was the sight of an elderly gentleman in tan pants and a loose white shirt, wearing one of those 'old man hats' that have recently become popular (but this was the real thing). He was rounding the corner of the little lake at the same time as I was, coming toward me slowly. Our paths were bound to cross, I guess. Funny how that works.
As my hurried gaze flitted over this fine chap in his fine cap, I remember thinking, "I wonder if I'll be that small and bent one day?" And then seeing him pointing and apparently mumbling to no one in particular, I could have completed that thought with a sympathetic wince, and stridden on to my busy day. It was in me to do that.
Instead, though, I thought I'd look where the old man's gesture led. So I stopped. I stood right next to him, and followed the line of the old fellow's finger. There in a shady corner of that low, fake lake were a pair of ducks, teaching two fuzzy ducklings to swim. "Little ones!" said my guide, and I nodded. Another small group of adult ducks were bobbing and dabbing nearby. Only he and I could see the little flock; everyone else was moving to fast. "A whole family of 'em, eh" I said, and he nodded.
We watched them for a bit, and I slowly took my leave. "Well, have a good day." He gave a half-look, a half-wave and soldiered on his own way. He could have been my grandfather; my father; me.
Ducklings, on a bright spring day like that, in a place like that - anyone in the whole downtown would have loved to see them. Anyone could have appreciated them, if they'd been easy to spot. Of course, these things ARE easy to spot, if only: we slow down, look around, read the signs of springtime, scan the wee wild places, follow the direction of the elders. And the children, for that matter. My eight-year old self would have spotted those birds in a second, and I have a sense that the old man of eighty or so was seeing them with an eight-year old's eyes.
Anytime I remember to do all that, I'm amazed where my gaze winds up landing. On this day it was fuzzy ducklings. Little ones! Signs of new life among the concrete and the clamour... Something worth watching on a busy downtown day in the springtime. That's what an old man sees.
Anyway, I walk by there all the time, and something's always different, just like it is on a real body of water. What was different on this sunny morning was the sight of an elderly gentleman in tan pants and a loose white shirt, wearing one of those 'old man hats' that have recently become popular (but this was the real thing). He was rounding the corner of the little lake at the same time as I was, coming toward me slowly. Our paths were bound to cross, I guess. Funny how that works.
As my hurried gaze flitted over this fine chap in his fine cap, I remember thinking, "I wonder if I'll be that small and bent one day?" And then seeing him pointing and apparently mumbling to no one in particular, I could have completed that thought with a sympathetic wince, and stridden on to my busy day. It was in me to do that.
Instead, though, I thought I'd look where the old man's gesture led. So I stopped. I stood right next to him, and followed the line of the old fellow's finger. There in a shady corner of that low, fake lake were a pair of ducks, teaching two fuzzy ducklings to swim. "Little ones!" said my guide, and I nodded. Another small group of adult ducks were bobbing and dabbing nearby. Only he and I could see the little flock; everyone else was moving to fast. "A whole family of 'em, eh" I said, and he nodded.
We watched them for a bit, and I slowly took my leave. "Well, have a good day." He gave a half-look, a half-wave and soldiered on his own way. He could have been my grandfather; my father; me.
Ducklings, on a bright spring day like that, in a place like that - anyone in the whole downtown would have loved to see them. Anyone could have appreciated them, if they'd been easy to spot. Of course, these things ARE easy to spot, if only: we slow down, look around, read the signs of springtime, scan the wee wild places, follow the direction of the elders. And the children, for that matter. My eight-year old self would have spotted those birds in a second, and I have a sense that the old man of eighty or so was seeing them with an eight-year old's eyes.
Anytime I remember to do all that, I'm amazed where my gaze winds up landing. On this day it was fuzzy ducklings. Little ones! Signs of new life among the concrete and the clamour... Something worth watching on a busy downtown day in the springtime. That's what an old man sees.
posted by David Newland at 26.5.07
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