Drawing by Lucinda Jennings
Glass Half Full
There was a raw mist in the air, but I needed a morning walk and the gloom wasn’t going to keep me inside. I took my usual route down Holmes Run Trail. Passing the Animal Welfare League of Alexandria, I pictured a hopeful future for those awaiting adoption. A few steps more and I passed the Great Waves Waterpark. Presently cold and silent, in summer it would be full of kids splashing away in the heat. Pondering what’s to come is normally uplifting, but that morning I had difficulty envisioning positives. A sudden awareness that “future” is always dwindling was a bleak realization.
I reached my destination and stood on a little bridge crossing over Lake Cook. Wallowing in self-pity, I mindlessly watched a pair of mallards frantically pick and poke through dried grasses along the bank.
“What’s the rush?” I asked them. “You’re ducks with no future.”
I rolled my eyes at myself for talking to ducks and turned to look out over the lake. Feeling forlorn was OK. I would embrace it and use the quiet morning to gather my thoughts and get myself back on track. Besides, the lake was a peaceful spot and nothing could ruin the serenity. The silence was perfect.
“Hey!” the shrill voice croaked. “Beautiful, right?” A spry old woman pointed toward the ducks as she marched enthusiastically to stand beside me on the bridge. She swung her arms in rapid circles several times, leaned left and right to stretch her back, and bent over the handrail to do standing push-ups. Dressed in purple sweatpants and pink jacket, flowered baseball cap and white sneakers, she had all the markings of a devoted walker.
“Hi,” I said tentatively, unsure of what was happening here.
“You’re from the South, aren’t you? Hiiiii. That’s how you said it. Hiiiii.” She bent and stretched as she spoke, her head nearly touching her knees. “I’m betting from the South. Keep talking until I say stop and I’ll know if I’m right. But I bet from the South?”
“Yes ma’am,” I answered.
“Stop!” She stood up.
She laughed and raised her arms over her head to bend from side to side again, counting slowly to herself. “Hiiiii,” she said again. “I won’t forget that!”
She adjusted her cap. “I’m from Minnesota.”
Introductions seemed in order. “My name is Stuart and…”
“Oh, I won’t remember your name." She stopped me. “But I won’t ever forget what you said.”
A set of jumping jacks, a couple of leg kicks and she stopped for more stretching. “Walk much?” She asked as she jogged in place.
“Most days. And I always see something interesting.” I nodded toward the two ducks now swimming away, leaving out that I’d just talked to them about their futures.
“Love them,” she said. “I see a lot of birds out here.”
She continued talking about her own morning walks and rituals. She retired 20 years ago and now at age 85 had watched all of her friends “move away or pass away.” She looked down at the water.
“Old age was OK for the first 10 years or so.” She giggled slightly. “I used to wonder what the point was because nothing new ever happened. Sometimes it’s hard to contemplate the future, but you’re young and wouldn’t understand that!” She did several more leg kicks.
“I understand,” I said. “I’m 58 and getting older can be rough.”
“Fifty-eight?” She adjusted her cap again. “Why, you’re just a little squirt!”
I agreed I wasn’t elderly, but pointed out that she herself said the older she got the more she wondered about the future.
“I used to wonder,” she corrected.
“But it dawned on me,” she continued. “I can walk and move and enjoy. I shouldn’t start the day waiting for the future to run out. That’s the wrong approach.”
She took off her jacket and tossed it to me. As I held it, she finished a final set of standing push-ups.
“It’s like this.” She took back her jacket and looked me in the face. “I woke up this morning and that’s more than some people did. The rest is up to me.”
At 85 years of age, this little whirlwind of a woman had the perfect attitude. I was impressed at the start by her jumping jacks and push-ups, but she had captivated me with her words. This elderly spitfire had managed to clear my fog about the future and I felt better already.
I wanted to hear more. I listened for the next nugget of advice but she had places to go. She zipped up her jacket and tightened her shoelaces.
“My name is Nadine and…”
“Oh, I won’t remember your name,” I smiled as I interrupted. “But I won’t ever forget what you said.”
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Alexandria writer Stuart Perkins' column "The Small Things" is published in each issue of Alexandria Living Magazine.
