A Wisp of a Man

I removed my cycling helmet and
gloves and cozied up to the micro-
brew bar and found myself sitting

next to a shrunken, withered, wisp
of a man. The man asked in his soft,
quiet, barely audible voice, “Come

here often? You seem to know what
beer to choose.” I responded that
my wife would be following shortly

in the “sag wagon” with the bike
rack on it and join me for our
Saturday, two p.m. regular visit.

We then discussed “stuff.” The
“wisp” was in his late eighties,
never exercised and smoked and

drank most of those years adding
that he had cut down on both lately.
“Not doing too badly,” 
he said. The

“wisp” had two long-haired dachs-
hunds that kept him pretty busy
but the biggest task he had as a

widower was raising the two great-
grandchildren, two and four, all
by himself. He said he got a sitter

so he could get out of the house.
The babies and the dogs were driving
him crazy and he just needed a beer.

I just shook my head and bought him
that beer.

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