on two old souls outside of the cobbler

magic cream and mall memories

Colonel? Hey, Colonel!

I resisted the urge to yell. My mall-shouting days were thankfully behind me. Instead, I aimed for projection. My voice bounced off the food court chatter and, apparently, off the Colonel himself.

Mostly.

Dad had spotted The Colonel, who was moving with the speed and grace of a glacier calving, his cane tapping a slow rhythm. Dad, bless his heart, was on a mission, his knee brace doing its best to keep up. Our pursuit took us past the flashing screens of the phone store, the tempting smells of the drugstore, and around the bend where the ghost of Winners still lingered. It felt like we were in a slow-motion chase scene from an old movie, Dad’s determined hobble just barely gaining on the Colonel’s steady amble.

We finally intercepted him near the cobbler – a fitting location for two old souls who’d seen enough wear and tear to appreciate a good repair job.

How are things Colonel?

Not too bad. Still moving. How’s the knee Jimmy?

It’s still moving too colonel. You’ve met my son Jimmy? We stopped by here for a coffee.

The Colonel was a bionic man. With two rebuilt hips, knees and stints in his heart, his septuagenarian body had been beaten up in service to his country.

The Colonel here is a smart cookie. He was two years ahead of me at Dartmouth High. After school, he joined the military. They tested him a bunch and realized how smart he was. Because of that, when he was just a private, they sent him to university - fully paid for. He spent his time all over the north running bases and protecting our country.

The military broke me. Then they put me back together. Even better? They give me the magic cream. You need any more of the stuff Jimmy?

I’m good for now Colonel. My knee still hurts, but it hurts a lot less when I put that stuff on it.

Oh yes Jimmy, they could dip me in a vat of it - I use it so much these days.

The Colonel and my dad were talking about the medical grade cannabis cream that they both used daily to relieve their aches and pains.

It’s just magic I tell ya, magic.

They looked at each other with affection and a sense of knowing. Both had seen death. Both had worked difficult jobs that hardened them and broke their bodies. Now their seventies had them much softer than they were when they worked at jobs where people lived and died based on their ability to respond to urgent changing circumstances.

It’s a joy to spend time with hard men who harden to survive.

Some in their old age get bitter and nasty. They snipe, bristle and their aggression finally has freedom from it’s oppressive filters.

But those heroic men who’ve picked up body parts from air disasters or pulled small children from burning buildings, they seem to have huge hearts. They know just how fragile and fleeting life is.

Every day on this side of the dirt is a good one Jimmy.

I wanted to salute.

Instead, I just felt a surprising amount of respect for these guys, navigating their twilight years with a healthy dose of medical-grade cannabis cream and stories that could curdle milk.

Later I asked my dad if given the life and death nature of his work was if he regretted it.

Regrets? Any other job I had was boring. Fighting fires was exciting. I wouldn’t have had it any other way.