The Long Road

This was a story that came to me when I was living in London in 1993. I used to see an old man at the same time, same place every day on my way to the tube station...

    

     I saw him again today, leaning into the wind, his eyes screwed up and his mouth a tight line of determination. With his arthritic fingers  curled round the lapels of his weathered tweed jacket, pulling it tight against the cold, he hobbled along, his eyes tearing against the elements. The blustery breeze snatched smoky whorls of breath from his mouth and whipped them over his shoulder. His lips quivered blue and chapped. His watery eyes were rheumy and distant beneath his hooded lids, fixed upon the gate at the end of the long road. A shock of white hair escaped from the side of his hat and fluttered wildly as the old man sought to pull down on the brim with his free hand.

 

     Every Sunday morning at nine, come rain or shine, for as long as I can remember I have seen him struggle up the winding path that leads to the park. So many times I think he might not make it, that he may stumble or one day decide that his legs will no longer carry him. Last week he brought bread for the ducks and I watched him tear off small chunks and flick his wrist in their direction, an odd look on his face. In the summer he would wear a flower in the lapel of his tweed jacket and his eyes would not seem so tired, his chin would be tilted higher and he would clasp his hands behind his back.

 

     Today, unusually, he paused at the park entrance and his gnarled fingers traced the rust-flecked wrought ironwork of the gate. He stared back down the road and a curious flicker of what could only have been a smile, tugged at the corner of his mouth. Finally, he hauled himself past the gate and wandered into the park where he would be shielded by the curling tree line. Once out of the wind, he relaxed the steadfast grip on his lapels and pulled a crumpled posy of flowers from the confines of his creased jacket. He made a fuss of straightening the things with his shaking hand before continuing on his way.

 

     Once at the bench, he fidgeted in his pocket for a small bag of bread pieces and slowly lowered himself onto the bench before scattering the food on the ground before him. He removed his hat and folded it and placed it in his lap before carefully laying the posy on the weather-cracked woodwork beside him. Leaning over gingerly he licked at the tip of his thumb and smeared it over a small plaque embedded on the back of the seat, worrying at the verdigris there. Satisfied, he straightened up and clasped his hands in his lap to stare out across the lake before closing his eyes against the hazy sun with a smile.

 

     For so many years I have watched him come here, week after week, year after year, climbing the long road to the place where we used to sit and feed the ducks. So many times I wanted to reach out to him and let him know that I was there, that I had always been there, right beside him, all this time.

 

     When I opened my eyes, he was staring right at me. He saw me, he was young again and the sun was shining...

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music taken from the Main Theme from Legends of the Fall.

Author's Note

One day at the tail end of winter he wasn't there and I never saw him again...

Reviews

[Creepy Swine Guy]

PERFECT ! I read this never once thinking about the narrator. I was busy wondering who he missed. I was obvious that he was pining. The POW! He's pining for the narrator who has seemingly predeceased him. touching and poingant.

I have no suggestions for this. Just a question.

If you extended this ... could you maintain it's quality??

[Bob Carney, "Soon ..]

A first rate story! The description in the first paragraph was complete and didn't overdo anything. Tasty. Imagery was terriffic throughout and if I closed my eyes (which makes it difficult to read mind you. lol) I could easily picture him on that walk up the path to the bench. Even without the picture above I knew what this man looked like. Thanks for not overdoing why he undertook this walk and leaving that for us to decide. It was a good thing to leave out. Really excellent prose. Thanks for sharing this with us.

[An Ordinary Woman]

It is a great story, very clever and full of imagery. i loved the ending, you got me with that. lolOnce at the bench, he fidgeted in his pocket for a small bag of bread pieces and slowly eased himself on the bench before scattering the food on the ground before him. He removed his hat and folded it and placed it in his lap then carefully laid the posy on the weather cracked woodwork beside him. Leaning gingerly over he licked at his thumb and smeared it over a small plaque embedded on the back of the seat, worrying at the verdigris there. Satisfied he straightened up and clasped his hands in his lap to stare out across the lake before closing his eyes against the hazy sun with a smile.That whole part there, i could really see ... I saw his satisfaction after he finished smearing the particle off ... wow just great. Also, I cannot tell you how pleased that I am to see your stories getting the attention they deserve. I read the other reviews ... and I can't really say anything they haven't already said, but dang,. it just makes me very happy to know this. Yup, I'm rambling again ...

[Sunny]

Very beautiful with great imagery with a nice twist at the end.

The only part I believe is redundant is in the second sentence: it says "against the wind." It would read better with just "...his eyes tearing." You start the next sentence immediately with "The blustery breeze" and you have mentioned the wind in the first sentence.

Otherwise great. And as you would say, cheers.

[Greg the Bard]

Howie how could you put this much imagery into one story. "The flaked Rusted Gate" man I wish I'd thought of that. This is wonderful and the balance is just right. The flow tells you that the story will continue yet be patient. There's no way this story could be told any better. The old fellow sitting on a park bench with a pleque for his lost lady. This story cannot end now because you have done such a great job of telling it. Great write and read

[Chantal-lise Mirman]

Oh, Howie,that was soooo romantic! Tricky, leading us by your description of the inspiration for the story to believe that you were, in fact, the narrator. Twist endings are somewhat of a trademark for you. Unlike Paul, I assume that it is the old man's wife (or at least, true love) who died, because of the flowers (plus the music is excruciatingly romantic). And if that isn't a lovely way to die (and end a story), I don't know what is...You made me cry...It's true that the beginning of the story is a bit crammed with adjectives, but I felt that somewhat justified as it also described the nature of the old man.I may have to have a ceremony naming my library the Howie Memorial Library (no-one need know you are still alive - probably better for the sale of your books if they're considered posthumous, anyway).Thanks for forwarding me this little treasure! Chantal-Lise

[the ghost of pauls]

Howie,
For months people have been telling me to go read Howie. It's been coming at me from all angles. So this review is as much for them as for you.
Firstly, specifically to your work, a very quick read through most of what you have posted here immediately reveals a writer who pays particular attention to detail. It is revealed in both your meticulous grammar and your carefully balanced language. You also display on numerous occassions an understanding of not just what the rule of grammar is, but also its function, the reason it became a rule of grammar. Your descriptions both of movement and scene are meticulous and fluid. The reader can follow the scene without effort unpacking the basics.
You have, if not an original thought (as in this fatherghost story) at least an original perspective on that thought. There is some point in reading the story because something is revealed to the reader of a thematical nature (a circularity in time in which the father and the son contain and express each other, something I experience looking in the mirror now that I am aproaching the age of my memory of my father) and you do this with a technical writers device. (In this case a simple change of perspective, a confusion a I's and You's at the end.)
You already know this Howie but I read a lot in here and here's the point. You reviewed a piece of mine and said "flash fiction" which I had to go look up and it seems to me that it is this form of writing, in an age where attention spans are getting shorter and which shows an understanding of the dynamics of reading from a screen, of this length, with just one or two technical flips in their heads, yours in other words which is the form of writing which stands the best chance of succeeding.
Your prose is meticulous which I greatly admire,
PaulS

[Carla (trying to make e..]

This is beautiful

[Jonathan Skaggs]

This is interesting. Structured nicely

[J. Alfred Prufrock]

ok, i think you have a nice writing style, but you get a little carried away with poorly placed adjective. stay focus and remember sometimes less is more. read your sentences outloud to yourself and try to get a feel for when a sentence is too crowded.

also: "whipped it over" should be "them" rather than "it"

also: His watery eyes were rheumy and distant beneath his hooded lids, fixed upon the gate at the end of the long road. (fixed upon" seems to refer to the "lids" "lids, and fixed" is how this should read to make it clear "fixed" is refering back to the eyes. you have to watch stuff life that or an editor will trash a story.

stay away from too many unneed details. only details needed to tell the tale shoud be added. 'weathered' tweed , fluttered "wildly" , "gnarled" fingers traced the "rust-flecked" wrought ironwork ae all examles of too much verbage. detail is great, just make sure that is is relevant, and desciplined. over all a good read that needs some polishing. cheers