There is a state that is not what it used to be. There is a village within that state that falls into the same category. Families have an obligation to prepare the next generation for a better life. Political regions apparently do not have that same obligation.
The village has a city name; Johnson City. From the period of my first memories of village life, until the time when I entered the army, I always remember one specific street corner. At one time a large store was located there. If my memory serves me correctly it was a hardware store. My memory does serve me correctly, I am sure, that to enter the store you had to climb three massive concrete stairs that wrapped around the entire front.
A Village That Has Changed
The store no longer exists, due to a fire. A silvery aluminum diner was finally placed on the site. It has always been called the “Red Robin Diner.” But this story is not about inanimate objects; it is about people, or, more succinctly, it is about one man. This man was one of several that were, and are, always located on that corner. Their faces change and their manner changes, but they are the same men.
They are retirees, older men living off a pension, a government dole, or off their savings. When I was young, they sat on an old wooden bench that was painted red. It probably belonged to the village. The men smoked and talked about something that I was never privileged to hear. They also had a bottle of something or other that was wrapped in a brown paper sack. In between cigarettes, or cigars, they would pass the sack around and each man had a swig of whatever was hidden in it.
They were nice friendly men. There were no loud voices or harsh words. They simply enjoyed each other’s company and nodded “hello” to the folks that passed them by. A nice toothy (or toothless) grin usually accompanied the “hello.”
I previously stated that the story is about one man. Possibly my memory has played some tricks on me over the years and this one man is a composite of all the old men that have located themselves on that corner. It makes no difference. This singular or composite soul was friendly, cheerful, unshaven, had a hole in his pants, and his shoes (that were once meant for work) were never polished. Yes; that is a good analogy. His shoes were like he was, unpolished but substantial, faithful, ready to serve.
This man smoked a pipe (in between nips). It was not a beautiful meerschaum pipe. It appeared to be made of briarwood and had a plain shape. He lit his pipe with what us youngsters called “farmer matches.” They were not your modern safety matches. They were more functional for a pipe smoker. The matches were singular (not in a pack) and had a hefty piece of wood (not the cheap paper stick that we now use). The heads had a section to burn and a section to strike. The striking portion was on the end and was typically white in color. Once struck, the burning section would be ignited which in turn would set the hefty wooden stick aflame.
Once again, we are not here to compare the old with the new but rather to set into motion the details about this old man and his wooden matches. Keep in mind the attributes of this old man. He was wise, somewhat the worse for wear (as we all would be if we had completed the tasks that he had), a little unkempt, but most importantly he loved the people around him. In fact he loved them almost as much as he loved lighting his pipe. I really believe he enjoyed lighting those farmer matches. He was constantly at it.
The match would appear from nowhere. He would be inspecting it before the casual observer even knew he had one in his hand. The old man would test the wooden section for sturdiness. Then he would spin it between his fingers and inspect the white striking end. This would be followed by an inspection of the secondary lighting section (which was usually red but sometimes blue). Once he was satisfied, the match would be struck against some hard surface. The striking end would burst open into a star-like pattern with other minor star patterns being created from the original one; then additional star patterns were created from the secondary ones. You could never tell how many star patterns were created due to the fact that it happened so fast. Yet, you knew that several patterns existed before they died out. At that same moment the secondary fire (blue or red; it makes no difference) would occur. This would create yet another burst of energy that exceeded what was necessary to light the pipe. The old man would keep the creation at a safe distance until the wooden section was on fire. Only at that time would he light his pipe.
I must repeat that he appeared to enjoy lighting the matches as much as smoking the pipe. I say this because he would always use about five matches for every pipe-full of tobacco. Additionally, his eyes would gleam with joy whenever he lit a match. It was not the gleam of a pyromaniac but rather the gleam of someone who created something. He appeared proud like a new father, or had that “ah-ha!” moment of someone who had a new insight. It was something that I never understood but always was amazed at observing. How could an old man on a corner get such satisfaction out of lighting his pipe?
It was only when I had my own “ah-ha!” moment (years later) that I understood the old man on the corner.
The ceremony of the pipe was his creation yet every time he accomplished that act he knew exactly what would occur. Oh, I don’t mean that he knew how many sparks would be created when the match was struck, nor did he know exactly how the flame would dance before settling into the wood. He only knew that he could create them and that the results would take care of themselves.
The match would flare, the wood would catch, and eventually the pipe would be lit. He had performed the ritual thousands of times, yet he never seemed to tire of it. Every match was inspected, every strike was deliberate, and every burst of sparks seemed to hold his attention.
As a youngster I could never understand how an old man could derive so much satisfaction from lighting a pipe. Years later I finally realized that the pipe was only part of the experience. What he truly enjoyed was the ritual itself. He appreciated the details that most of us overlook.
The inspection of the match, the feel of the wood between his fingers, the brief explosion of sparks, the smell of the burning wood, and finally the first draw on the pipe were all parts of a familiar ceremony that brought him satisfaction.
Many of us spend our lives searching for happiness in grand accomplishments and important events. We rush from one task to another and rarely take notice of the simple moments that make up most of our lives. The old man on the corner seemed to understand something that I did not. He understood how to appreciate an ordinary moment.
The hardware store is gone. The red bench is gone. Most of the men who sat there are probably gone as well. Yet whenever I think of that corner, I still see that old man carefully examining one of his farmer matches before striking it. I can still see the sparks and the smile in his eyes as he lit his pipe.
For reasons I could not understand then, and can only partly understand now, that simple ritual has remained with me all these years.
