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One bright and crisp autumn afternoon, I was sitting in the park on a bench reading. I overheard an old man nearby talking with a little boy, his grandson, who was sitting on the bench next to him. The boy was six, maybe seven years old, with the most incredible blond ringlets that framed what someday would be a very handsome face. He had huge blue eyes that looked adoringly up at his grandfather, as though searching his face for answers to his many questions, and they were holding hands.  When looking at any beautiful child, I can’t help but think of something my mother used to say, "With all of the beautiful children in the world, where do all the ugly adults come from?" I smiled. I could be wrong, but I don't think so.
 The boy asked the old man why there were so many old people in the park every day. The grandfather was quiet, thoughtful, for a minute. Then I heard him clear his throat. He let go of the boy's hand and slowly stretched an arm around the little boy's shoulders, pulling him closer to him. Then in unhurried words, he told the boy maybe they were just too alone at home to want to stay there. He said sometimes they needed to be with other people their age. There in the park they could share their favorite jokes and play some bocce ball to pass the time.
 Then looking down at the pigeons gathering on the ground around the bench, the old man reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a small brown paper bag. He handed it to the boy. The boy thanked him and reached into the rumpled brown bag, and began tossing pieces of popcorn, one by one, to the pigeons, favoring a gray one with a limp.
 As he did this, he asked the old man why they all called out names and waved at every new person who came. The grandfather told him that was a way of keeping their minds alive. After all, your mind is like a muscle and all muscles need to be exercised. Remembering everyone’s name was almost like another game they played and maybe it helped them ignore their pains and their problems.
 The boy nodded his understanding and continued to feed the pigeons, taking his job very seriously. Then spotting a squirrel that darted out from under the bench to steal a kernel of popcorn, he jumped up and stomped his foot. Of course this also frightened the pigeons and they flew away. I had to smile. Then the boy sat back down beside the old man, obviously disappointed by the sudden turn in events.
 The boy sat quietly for awhile as he watched the old people in the park. I followed where his eyes seemed to go. They stopped first on a couple of men playing a game of checkers on a stone table, and then moved on over to a group of three older men in a heated exchange. As he looked from one little group to the other, he asked his grandfather if the men playing checkers ever got tired of doing that. Did they just sit there every day doing the same old thing? Then he looked at the men who seemed to be arguing, and asked what they could be upset about.
 The old man smiled lovingly at the boy. He cleared his throat again and in a slow voice, he explained to his grandson that to some of the old folks, the checkers games were a way of making some sense out of a changing world that they didn‘t feel a part of any more. In a way, it was like keeping them in touch with a world they did know -- and it got them out of their recliner chairs and away from their TV sets for a little while. And the three men who were in a heated discussion weren’t really arguing. Maybe to make the time fly they antagonized and criticized each other a bit, just to keep their juices flowing. Sometimes they even acted a little wise by bragging or griping about the good old times. You know, maybe talking about old girlfriends and teasing the others about their old girlfriends. The boy giggled and wiped his nose with his sleeve.
 By now, the pigeons had begun to come back around the boy‘s feet, shyly at first, then with a little more excitement. It always amazed me how the feed-ees recognized so easily whose feet belonged to the specific feed-er. The boy stuck his hand down into the rumpled brown bag again and brought out his next offering for the hungry rascals on the ground below. Both sat quietly watching and grinning as the greedy winged goblins jockeyed into position for the next snack shared by the small hand. Then the boy looked up at his grandfather and asked him how long everyone stayed here in the park. The old man sighed. His eyes were still focused on the pigeons. At first, I thought he hadn’t heard the boy, and then I saw him lovingly pat the blond curls on the top of his head. The grandfather told him that they stayed until it started to get dark, or sometimes until it just plain got too cold to be there any longer. Then one by one, they waved goodbye, again calling each other by name just as they did every day when they first got there. Then they went home again and back into the past. The boy nodded, then smiled up at the old man, and both renewed their feeding ritual of the pigeons. After a little while, the boy asked his grampa how he knew so much. The old man told him when you got to be his age … there were some things you … you just knew. The boy looked up at his grandfather with a concerned look on his face and he said, “Grampa, I love you. You’re NOT old. You’re … you’re … you’re like a shiny red apple. You’re ripe and … just right.”
 The old man laughed out loud, and maybe it was the dwindling light, or maybe a trick of my eyes, but I could swear I saw the lines in his face smooth out. He looked ten years younger and I was surprised to find a tear on my cheek as I watched the old man wipe at his eyes when he finally stopped laughing.
 Slowly, the old man looked up at the sky. He told his grandson they should be getting along home now. As they got up to leave, the grandfather replaced the empty brown paper bag in his pocket. One by one, the others in the park raised an arm and called him by name, almost in unison,
“Bye, Gabe.” He in turn did the same. “Bye, Herb, Sam, Max, Shorty, Charlie.” “Hey, Gabe. We still on for checkers tomorrow at nine?” Called one man sitting next to the men playing checkers at the stone table. “Sure, Sam. Looking forward to it,” was Gabe, the grandfather’s, response. I was sure God would forgive his little white lie …and the last I saw of the small boy who was in the beginning of his life, and the wise and loving elderly man nearing the end of his, they were walking slowly back down the path through the park, hand in hand.
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