The Old Man and His Pipe

In the frigid winter in a northern town I came upon an old man smoking his pipe on a warped porch. The way he sat, so still and placid, made me wonder if he was not indeed a whimsical waxwork, placed outside for a laugh when the odd tourist was fooled by it. But his eyes soon set upon me and he blew a long stream of smoke from his mouth after a profuse puff. The sun struggled to break free of those heavy grey clouds that signaled snow, and how he could stand it seemed to me nearly miraculous.

 "How is it you're not cold, sir?" I asked, shivering as a small gust of icicled wind began to numb my ears. "Winter comes every year," he said with a voice just as unhurried as the rest of him. Slightly annoyed by his captious answer I said, "Uh, yes... that's true. But there haven't been many as bloody cold as this one and that coat doesn't look very warm."

 "All winters are the same"

 Now this ancient northern denizen really was getting under my skin. "I hate to argue with you but all winters are certainly not the same. Temperatures can fluctuate quite a bit. In recent times some winters have felt more like spring," I said. He smirked good-naturedly and I sensed he'd no doubt impart a bit of wisdom gathered from living here.

 "Sure. That's true, too. But every winter's still the same, son, because not matter how cold it gets, my wife has made me go outside to smoke for the past fifty years."