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Copyrights reserved by the author. If you are in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' and read the details. Ask not for whom the bench waits, it waits for thee! by J. G. Fabiano. It seems every time I drive down York Street and pass Yorkshire Commons that I see some elderly man or woman sitting on the bench watching the world go by. I always notice how serene they look compared to my own busy life. The other day I was caught in a traffic jam, something that was impossible in York ten years ago, and I was stuck right in front of that bench. Sitting there was an elderly gentleman who wore what must have been a favorite fishing cap, red flannel shirt, and a pair of old, worn-out jeans. As I looked at him, his head turned towards me and our eyes met. I have no idea what expression I had on my face but whatever it was made him smile. A second later he waved and, without thinking, I did the same. Then the traffic started up again and off I went. As I drove away I watched the old gentleman in my rear-view mirror and his hand seemed to stay in the air for a long time, waving me goodbye. Naturally, I wondered what he was thinking from his point of view. Consumed by my own struggles through middle age I decided to take the time to find out. The next day I walked down to the bench and sat there myself to watch the world pass by. The first thing that I noticed when I plopped my butt on the bench was that it was very cold, and that made me feel old. I was wearing what I normally wear this time of year; a pair of shorts with a favorite shirt and, of course, my favorite pair of sandals that survived their test of time. Maybe I should have followed the old-timers' lead and worn a flannel shirt and blue jeans. It was a Friday afternoon and the traffic into town was heavy and slow-moving. I never thought I would ever enjoy sitting in a heavy traffic jam but there is a whole world of difference between sitting in a car not going anywhere and sitting on a bench not going anywhere. The people in the cars that slowly rolled past me were all ages and shapes. It was easy to tell the difference between those who had to be someplace and those who had no place to go. The drivers whose hands clenched the steering wheel like they were driving a machine that could go out of control at any second rarely looked from side to side. They simply stared directly in front of them as if hoping the cars that kept them from where they had to be would simply disappear. These people never had music playing from their radios. They listened to talk radio shows or newscasts that made them concentrate on the woes of the world instead of the beauty that surrounded them. Every now and then one of these drivers would look at me in disdain, as if I were an incorrigible idler that should be off somewhere putting my time to better use. At first their stares made me feel a little uncomfortable but after a while I simply felt sorry for them. I smiled back at them. Other people who were forced to wait in the line of cars down York Street enjoyed the environment around them. How could they not? Ever since we moved to York my wife told me that the Congregational Church and its surroundings reminded her of "Peyton Place." She would always add that she thought we were both remarkably lucky to live in such a beautiful place. The scenery watchers rarely looked through their windshields but turned their heads from side to side, enjoying all that York Village had to offer. Music often poured from their cars, adding to the noise that progressed slowly down the street, and some of the people moved their mouths to the words of the music. Many of them had children in the back seats who also seemed to be happy to be going where they were going. The drivers and passengers of these 'happy' cars always looked over to me. Most waved and, of course, I waved back. Smiles were exchanged and I got the feeling that they hoped one day that they would successfully grow old enough and be able to sit on some bench and watch the world go by. They didn't know that I was an interloper who also still had places to go and people to see but wanted to take a time out to experience a bit of what my future might be. There were also many different types of people walking up and down York Street, all of them moving faster than the traffic. Many were out walking their dogs and, they and their dogs, seemed to be happy to be on foot. Some of these people were older and I was surprised that so few of them returned my wave or my smile. Maybe they thought I looked strange or maybe they didn't want to associate with an old geezer sitting on a bench in case they thought it made them look old too. The younger dog walkers always waved and smiled. Because they were so young they knew they had a whole bunch of time left before they would look like me. The young always think they will never grow old. I loved watching the joggers go by. I wondered if they had any idea that the abuse they put their bodies through would come back to haunt them when they turned 50 and they couldn't do the simplest chores without their knees hurting or their ankles hurting. I was a jogger once and I am living proof that it doesn't work. It doesn't delay old age at all, it hastens it. Bette Davis once said: 'Growing old ain't for sissies.' You have to live it to know what it means. As I leaned back on the bench watching the world pass before me I felt a sudden urge to turn around. Behind me was one of the elderly gentlemen I had observed a few days before when I was stuck in traffic. Our eyes met and it became clear to me that I was taking up space that wasn't mine to take. I hadn't earned it yet. I nodded to him then got up and walked away, turning over the bench to him. As we passed I wondered why it is so hard for the different generations to talk to each other. Why is it so hard for them to explain their years of experience to those of us who try not to make the mistakes of those who lived before? Why is it so difficult for them to look into our eyes and tell us some of what they know? To paraphrase Harry Truman: 'There is nothing new in this world. Only the times that are not remembered.' A few days later I found myself back in the traffic on York Street again. A position I will have for many years to come. My little experiment was behind me and I knew there would never be a time when my life would revolve around a bench. I mean I am never going to be that old, am I? The End
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